


Dances In Darkness - Book 6: Refugee

by HigheverRains



Series: Dances In Darkness [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 20:36:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 213,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5262626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigheverRains/pseuds/HigheverRains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was an eerie red light that glowed from the walls, veins of something that sang like fire and anger in her soul. Her head ached to draw too close. She gritted her teeth against the pain.</p><p>"We're getting out of here," she said, more firmly than she felt. "And when I find your brother, Varric, I'll prove just how mad a cornered bitch can be."</p><p><b>BOOK 6 of the DANCES IN DARKNESS SERIES</b><br/>It is recommended you read the rest of the series before reading this book. Previous events/characters will be mentioned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie and Carver go in search of funds and wind up in the middle of a corrupt City Guard scheme. An argument between Mother and Gamlen gives Sidonie and Carver a way to get the influence they need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome! :)
> 
> ~Welcome to Book 6! <3 Thank you for reading!~
> 
> A NOTE: I will try and get as many chapters out before next Saturday, but at that point business requires I take a two week hiatus as I will not have internet. I will continue to write during this time as possible, and try to post if I can, otherwise I shall post anything written during that hiatus upon my return. Thanks for your patience everyone <3 :) ~HigheverRains

In the grand scheme of all things, not carrying her halberd made her feel defenseless. She had no need for steel, of course. Any true threats could be extinguished with the liberal application of fire and force. That did not make her any less comfortable as she strode through the gates of the Viscount’s Keep, especially knowing what it might cost her to need to react. 

She was instead relying on Carver, and the Maker was laughing about that somewhere. Carver did not have his sword either. They were hardly going to be able to wander armed into the guard quarters of the Viscount’s Keep in mercenary gear without causing problems, and the purpose of this particular visit was to stay on the right side of the law. No, they were hunting bounties. That meant, in the event of trouble, they were more or less restricted to Carver hitting things and Sidonie attempting _not_ to set everything else on fire.

A clenching growl proved to her the necessity of going, however, as if she was unaware had hungry she was. She forced her thoughts from her empty belly and sighed, climbing the steps from the foyer. Uncle Gamlen’s debts had needed settling, ever since someone had come bursting through the door in the middle of the night to demand it in gold or blood. They had given almost all they had to settle that one, and Mother had stopped speaking to him altogether as a result.

The expedition demanded that they find some source of funds. Sidonie had been hoping to come up with work from the Chanter’s board, or maybe a stroke of luck from a contact in Darktown or the mercenary circuit. Carver had been the one to suggest Aveline. That in itself was surprising. The guard had ye to accept him, even though he had worked in King Cailan’s army for several years, and Carver had been less than friendly towards Aveline since applying. But necessity was necessity. Hunger was hunger. They really had no choice.

Sidonie climbed the last of the marble steps towards the patterned flagstones that made up the second floor. Nobility loitered in the foyer and open chambers, grumbling about the wait to see the Viscount or the newest fashions. Sidonie wanted to roll her eyes and grin, and for a moment she very nearly did. 

What care did she have for the newest fashions when she was licking boots for cash? 

Not for the first time she had considered Meeran, wondered how low she might need to get before she would simply surrender what he wanted. A job was a job, and circumstances…well…it was all her fault, was it not?

She pushed the thought away. Meeran was a handsy pig, and a last resort, and this marked the end of their time with him. If anything was going to go wrong, if he was going to turn them in, it would be any day now. She was playing a dangerous game in this balancing act. One wrong move and it would be the end. One wrong move…

She pushed the thoughts away and skirted a handful of richly clad nobles as she made her way to the guardsmen barracks where Aveline lived. 

A few of the guards knew her. Whether that was a good or a bad thing, she was not sure yet. But they nodded as she passed, recognizing her for Aveline’s associate, and pointed her in the right direction, when all was said and done.

She found Aveline near the far end of the hall, arms crossed as she studied the wall of duty rosters posted for the guardsmen. Another guard stood nearby, hammering another paper dutifully into the cork that covered the marble wall. Sidonie ignored him until he wandered away, then settled with her shoulder to the wall, and cocked a grin at the guardswoman.

“Aveline,” she said brightly, because she wanted a favor, and you do not greet people with misery when you want something. The guardswomen did not even look to her, tracing her finger down the nearest roster with narrowed eyes.

“Hawke.” Sidonie waited a moment, but when Aveline still did not look, she Carver a small smirk and shook her head. 

“That’s it?” she prodded, and Aveline did look up then. 

The woman had done well over the year, got a good commission and found a place to stay at the barracks. Her guardsman’s armor suited her like a second skin, and she bore the shield on her back with pride. Aveline was meant to follow and enforce the rules. Sidonie felt the prickle of distaste at that. She had no such options herself after all. And anyway, half the rules in Kirkwall seemed determined to destroy her.

But Aveline had fled with them, and she had kept their secret. She had proven herself a loyal friend, even occasionally sending money when Sidonie had dropped hints that things were getting hard to handle. There was a quiet understanding within the woman’s green eyes that theirs was a friendship built on circumstance, but she was eager to cling to it and Sidonie had no reason to stop the association. Having a friend in the guard was sometimes useful, especially when it came to mercenary work. And if times had sometimes been tense, at least they had not exploded into chaos. Aveline had yet to arrest her for whatever lawbreaking she had enacted over the past year, and was generally determined to look out for those she deemed comrades. If there was anything to be said for the last year, it was that it had earned her solidarity where she had thought to find none.

“Oh right, sorry,” the woman said under a shock of orange hair and a face full of freckles. “It feels like we just talked.” She tipped her head towards the back corner where they might have a little more privacy. “I’ve been keeping an eye on you. Information is one of the few perks of this job. Watch out for Bartrand. He’s a son of a bitch.” And so easily dismissed when she was settled in her cosy life. Plus, being watched was dangerous.

“You know I don’t like it when you have people watch me,” Hawke grumbled as Carver crossed his arms and settled back against the wall to consider Aveline.

“Saved me camping on your doorstep,” Aveline suggested, which of course missed the point that she would still be watching her. But there was a quiet sorrow in her eyes. “After what we went through to get here, I…” her voice broke a little and she reined in the emotion. “Well, you’re no child,” she said instead, “but I take care of my friends.” And there was honesty in that at least, so Sidonie let it go. “The places they have me patrolling? I’ve got time.” Bitter then. Kirkwall guards did not seem to be particularly good at patrolling anything anyway. Sidonie rarely saw them outside of Hightown, and certainly not where the trouble seemed to be. But all that was beside the point. She was there for work.

“A person in your position seems like they might learn some profitable things,” she grinned, and Aveline gave her a flat look.

“You know better than to ask that,” she muttered. Sidonie shrugged.

“One day you’ll be frustrated enough to go for it,” she replied calmly, and Aveline gave a heavy sigh. 

“It’s like I’m sitting on my hands. There are dangerous people in this city. In fact, I might have a job for you.” And that was all she wanted really. Sidonie glanced sidelong to Carver. 

“Alright, Aveline,” she said musingly. “You have something worth doing?” Aveline gave a small smile at the corner of her lips, then nodded.

“My patrols may be empty walks in the dark, but there’s something big coming up, and I could use you. An ambush, probably for a caravan, although I can’t find any shipments that match up. Doesn’t matter though.” She fixed Hawke with a flat look again. “Highwaymen waiting for someone to rob? I’m putting a stop to it, my district or not.” Hawke narrowed her gaze a little.

“You’ve been nosing around outside your commission?” she said wrly. Aveline just shot her a look to make her wither.

“I have contacts, and they’re complaining about a lack of meat. Thugs and such. Someone is hiring. And one or two were told to prepare for travelers.” Aveline glanced to Carver. “You want to be good at this job, you pay attention to what’s missing and when people arrange escape routes.”

“Do you have a name of who may be behind it?” Sidonie asked, checking her fingernails. Maker she felt naked without her staff. Impeding smuggler trouble did not sit well with her. Best to make sure this was not Meeran or Athenril before she agreed. She needed to stay well away from that nonsense.

“No important,” Aveline said dismissively. “If we show up and they attack, they’re bad, simple as that.” Or poor. But Sidonie kept her tongue on that one. Aveline did not need to know she and Carver had not eaten in two days. “I’ll wager it’s smugglers though,” the guardsmen added. “Like I said, seems like an obvious trap for a caravan.” 

_And as long as it isn’t Athenril, it’s safe to earn coin stopping them,_ Sidonie found herself thinking. 

“Seems like you’d want to share this with your fellow guards?” Carver asked pointedly, pushing up from the wall. Aveline gave him a quiet look.

“I will, if you two sit on your hands,” was the reply, curt and simple. “I’ll send my alerts and someone else will lead a patrol. But there’s profit and influence to be had. You’re my friends. So I’m offering.” Carver looked a little put out, but Sidonie headed him off before he could respond. 

“I’m no guard, Aveline,” she said quietly. And Carver…well he had tried and they still had not taken him. Aveline just shook her head.

“There’s only so many of us,” she told them, glancing down the guardsmen barracks to make sure they were still not being eavesdropped upon. “Temporary recruits are expected from time to time, as long as they’re competent. You still claim to be competent right?” Not what Carver wanted, but still the promise of pay and the chance to get his name through the door…it might be worth it all the same. Sidonie glanced to Carver, who finally gave a dark nod, and then she sighed.

“Alright, Aveline, we’ll play guard for you.” Aveline broke into a broad smile.

“I knew I could count on you,” she said merrily. “They’re hidden up the passes to Sundermount, but we can make good time with a short cut this side.” Sidonie grimaced, then nodded. The last thing she really wanted to be doing was climbing Sundermount on an empty stomach. As if she could read her thoughts, Aveline smirked, then shook her head. “We can go and find something to eat and then make the journey. With luck, we’ll be back before nightfall.” Carver grimaced, and Sidonie nodded with a relieved smile as Aveline went to sign herself out of the barracks. 

“They should have processed my application by now,” Carver said quietly. He had applied months back, hoping to escape Meeran. So far they have heard nothing.

“I’m sure Aveline can tell you where they might be up to,” Sidonie said, drawing alongside her brother and watching Aveline with her stick of charcoal signing her name on one of the rosters back where they had first found her. Her oxblood gaze slipped to Carver who looked a little angry.

“She wouldn’t put in a word last time.”

“Maybe this is the opportunity you need then?” Sidonie suggested before taking the steps back into the Keep as Aveline came to join them.

The guardsman treated them to simple fare from one of the street vendors down in Lowtown. It was nothing much, meat roasted over a small fire skewered on sticks for people to hold, but still better than they had had in days. Carver and Sidonie had both gone without, though if Mother found out she would be furious. Carver inhaled his skewered…Maker, it did not even matter what kind of meat it was at this point. Sidonie’s was gone before she even realized it as well. Aveline watched them with quiet eyes, knowing, saying nothing. Sidonie was glad for the silence. If she had spoken…

She did not. She let it be. That was enough.

Aveline waited for them as Sidonie collected her staff and Carver his sword. If Sidonie was being honest, she was surprised to find it still in the house. She would not have put it past Uncle Gamlen to sell it while they were gone. Except she could set people on fire without a staff, and she was fairly sure Uncle Gamlen was frightened of her. She did whistle for Lady as she left. The mabari was thin and as hungry as the rest of them, but any mabari was worth having along, and Lady seemed glad at the opportunity to leave the house. Kirkwall really was no place for a dog. 

Since the Blight, refugees had never stopped trying to enter Kirkwall. Even with things settled now for the past few months there were those still fleeing northward. The gates were shut and barred, and a shanty town had flung up about it. In hindsight, the Hawkes had been lucky to make it into the city at all, even if it had cost them a year. Walking through the pitched tents and scattered hungry faces was reminder enough of the costs had they not signed their lives over the Meeran for the year. Gamlen’s debts were infuriating, but they had done some good. They had opened doors, given them a chance.

Sundermount itself was tall and imposing in the distance, hovering over Kirkwall atop the cliffs overlooking the Waking Sea. They took the thin road that ribboned across the coastline, populated primarily by seagulls and visited only by guardsmen on external patrols, smugglers, and raiders. Along the coast, jagged rocks had caught ships that were swept up in the storms that rolled down the Waking Sea. Creaking masts and shattered prows lined the reefs, tattered sails swaying in the wind of the overcast sky. 

Aveline led them onward at a determined pace, and Sidonie and Carver tried to keep up. Lady traipsed along at Sidonie’s side.

“There might be some stragglers off the main group,” the guardsman said as they crossed the gritty sands. “Nothing we can’t handle.” 

“Aveline.” Sidonie looked sidelong to Carver, who had his fists clenched as he walked. She saw the indecision on his face, and she sighed. Aveline looked back over his shoulder. “We’re helping you with this for the guard. Did you approve my application?” Aveline sighed.

“I can’t make you a guard, Carver.” Sidonie narrowed her gaze a little, pursing her lips. She saw Carver tense.

“We were both soldiers,” he said. “Why won’t they take me?” Maker, she had seen how he had been after he fled Ostagar, Lady on his heels. He had served in the King’s Army for three years before Ostagar, and finally seemed to be finding a place. The Darkspawn and the Blight had taken a lot of things, but Carver would be a good guard. He listened, he worried about people, and he acted when he needed to. Aveline just shook her head.

“I was an officer,” she said, as if that explained anything, “and I follow orders.” Carver held up his hands with a laugh, motioning to the landscape about them.

“No you don’t,” he said bitterly, his point made. Aveline paused, turning back and fixing him with a hard look.

“I also think of others before myself,” she said, and Sidonie’s brow creased. “You seem tired of that, and that’s dangerous.” Carver stared a moment, tension thick between them.

“Just when it’s not my choice,” Carver spat. “You told them not to take me, didn’t you?” There was a silence, and then Aveline drew a breath, raising her chin.

“Yes,” she said, and turned her back. Sidonie stared, and Carver gave her a dark glare, chest rising and falling in betrayal. Sidonie reached carefully to touch his shoulder, but he shrugged her off and stalked back along the path.

“Fine. Let’s just get this done now.” Sidonie sighed, then shook her head as Lady skipped along to catch up with Carver. Then, feeling a flicker of irritation, she quickened her pace to catch up with Aveline.

“Angry at me as well?” the guardswoman said flatly. Sidonie did not meet her eyes.

“No doubt you had your reasons,” she said a little curtly. “But we need the work, and…”

“Hawke,” Aveline said simply, looking to her, “they asked me my opinion. And Carver…”

“Is a little shit,” Sidonie said. “But that doesn’t mean he isn’t a good man.”

“I asked you along, didn’t I? This is the best I can do.” Sidonie shook her head.

“Seems like Kirkwall suits you,” she said in irritation. It certainly did not suit _her_. Aveline just sighed.

“It has been a challenge,” Aveline replied earnestly, “lots of…opportunity. If you’re the type the locals want.”

“Are you?” Sidonie asked. She was certain _she_ was not, and Aveline had decided Carver was not either. That did not bode well. Without the chance of a position in the guard, they really had no fallback except the expedition, or capitulating to Meeran. 

“If you argue enough, you kind of convince yourself,” Aveline said, one harm resting on her sword hilt at her hip. That at least was true, so Sidonie considered Carver’s back ahead, then sighed, shaking her head.

“This…must be a very different pace from serving King Cailan,” she murmured. The last year had seen Carver slipping further into despair, but she doubted the experience had been all that much better for Aveline. Aveline had been a soldier longer than Carver, an officer no less, and had come from Denerim. Aveline herself just shrugged.

“I loved that life,” she said, eyes narrowed at Carver’s back. “But there’s a new King for a new Ferelden. He seems cocksure, but I guess he was there when the Archdemon fell. Can’t fault an active hand.” The rumors had reached them of course. King Alistair, the bastard son of Maric emerged from the depths. Sidonie gave a small smile, shaking her head. She knew them. She had met them, there in Lothering, the Wardens she had crossed paths with before the Blight had reached them. 

She remembered King Alistair as far less cocksure and far more unsure. And she remembered Queen Eideann as fierce and a little intimidating and unapproachable. A different Ferelden indeed.

“It’s just one more change, though,” Aveline added. “The real end of me…us…was Ostagar.” She was looking at Carver’s back again. Carver, who had been listening in, simply shook his head.

“You don’t know anything about me,” he called angrily, waving a hand at them. He did not even look back. Aveline sighed.

“Bit of a tit, your brother,” Aveline sniffed. Sidonie raised an eyebrow.

“Not the only one,” she said simply. And then Lady gave a bark and Carver paused, reaching to put a hand on Lady’s fur. 

“There,” he said as they drew up alongside them, pointing further down the path where a group of raiders were milling about in the sands. Sidonie crouched down, Aveline and Carver following suit, and Lady gave a low whine.

“There’s no cover beyond this hill,” the guardsman said quietly. 

“Sister,” Carver said without looking for her. “Can you hit them?” Sidonie narrowed her gaze, considering, then wet her lips.

“Yes. Is Aveline planning on arresting me if I do?”

“You know better than to ask me that,” Aveline said simply. So Sidonie reached for her staff and the Fade. 

Maker, it felt good to finally be casting again. She had been limited to the most minor of spells for the past year. She drew in on the power, larger and larger, until she could not hold anymore. And then she let it flood through her, a conduit, forming fire and force in her mind.

There was a flash of fire and heat, a bright light that suddenly emerged, and her entire staff glowed bright with fire as she channeled the energy along the lyrium core. And then it burst forth, searing the air, and exploded into Fade-formed flames atop the group of raiders. Screams lit the air, the scent of flame, and Sidonie reached for more. 

Carver drew his sword and charged, and Aveline hurried after. They slammed into the remaining raiders, which Sidonie slammed to the ground with force. And then they were all dealt with. Sidonie tightened her grip on her staff, her leather gloves creaking about her fingers. She crossed down the sandy hill towards the others with a wary look.

“Not Athenril then,” Carver said as she drew close.

“A shame,” Sidonie said, giving him a charming smile. “I do so like catching up with old friends.” She considered the corpses, pressing her lips into a thin line. “Raiders though…” 

“Come on,” Aveline said. “There will be more ahead. We’re close to the ambush, Hawke. Be ready.” 

The remainder of the raider group were indeed nearby, just after a bend in the road, about fifteen of them loitering at the narrowing of the road. Sidonie reached for fire again to rain upon the group. Some fell in the first barrage, and the rest came charging down the hill towards them. 

There was something to be said for the forces of magic. It had been too long since she had had the chance to really control a fight. She used force, yanking half of them from their feet and knocking them into the line Aveline, Carver, and Lady had hurriedly made.

A pair of archers took aim at her and she swung about, throwing up a shield. It was weak, more force outward than actual holding shield, but it deflected one of the arrows. The other ricocheted from Aveline’s shield as the guardsman appeared at her side. Sidonie flipped her staff in a sweeping arc, taking out a warrior that drove past Carver towards them, then thrust him back with another rumble of force magic. 

Carver’s sword carved a gash across the final one’s chest and Lady dragged the raider down into the sand, muzzle covered in blood and sand. And then Aveline sighed, crouching to examine the nearest bodies. Then she bit the inside of her lip and shook her head.

“Well equipped for bandits,” she said, glancing back. Sidonie grimaced.

“No traps. We’re sure this was a caravan?” she asked. Carver sheathed his sword and came to join them. He gave a shrug.

“Raiders,” he muttered. “Better at catching ships than shipments?” Aveline pushed herself up.

“Regardless. Dead is dead, and the road is clear.” She scrubbed some blood from her cheek and sighed. “Captain Jeven needs to know about this.” Sidonie sighed.

“Captain Ewald, Captain Jeven, they don’t last long here, do they?” she muttered. Aveline gave her a quiet look.

“No,” she said simply. “They don’t. Captain Ewald was removed from his post when Knight-Commander Meredith discovered stores of lyrium disappearing from the Gallows.” Sidonie fell silent at that. Captain Ewald had been kind enough to find Gamlen when they had first arrived. And now because of her he had lost his position. Aveline gave her a quiet look, then she turned back towards the path and Kirkwall. Carver watched her go, eyes still cool and angry. 

“This better pan out,” was all he said. “When we reach the city, I’m…going to take care of Lady. She’s filthy. You…go ahead with Aveline. I don’t want to step foot in those barracks again.”

“Fine, since you’re being a coward about it,” Sidonie sniffed, but she let him go at the gate, surrendering her staff to him as he departed, and he took off with Lady to get her fur cleaned up before Mother could catch sight of her. Sidonie followed Aveline back up the steps to the Viscount’s Keep. 

But when they reached the barracks, things did not go immediately as planned. Aveline left Sidonie at the door to the Captain’s office as she went in to explain the situation. Sidonie loitered outside the door, setting her back to the wall and keeping an eye on the guardsmen that came and went. Behind her, through the wood, she could hear the screaming. Jeven was livid.

“I don’t know how they do it where you’re from, guardswoman, but _I_ decide the patrols, not you and your whims! You may have been put up for lieutenant in your first year, but I’ll have no _showoffs_ in my command! Have I made myself clear?!” Sidonie set her head back against the stone, staring up at the vaulted ceiling built by Tevinter long ago. All that work and no pay-off. She gritted her teeth. “Report to your post before I have you and your Fereldan accomplice jailed!” The door swung open violently, and Sidonie started a little as Aveline emerged, eyes smoldering. The guardswoman shut the door behind her with a little more force than was perhaps proper and then clenched her fists at her sides, drawing a deep breath. Sidonie raised an eyebrow and pushed herself slowly from the wall.

“Well,” she said, considering Aveline who was still trying to calm herself. “What a charming fellow.” 

“I don’t have to like him, but he could at least listen,” Aveline muttered. Sidonie gave a wry smirk. In a way she was not surprised. After all, with all the trouble she herself had been pulled into over the past year, an ineffectual guard was more or less expected. “Bandits are dead,” Aveline said. “That’s all that should matter.” But Sidonie wondered how many of those raiders and bandits were robbing caravans because they had no other choice. 

Aveline crossed the chamber, shaking her head, lips thin. “It’s not the first time he’s made me wonder like this,” she admitted, “something is very wrong.” Sidonie followed her, crossing her arms over her leather mercenary leathers.

“This is probably a bad time to discuss my bill with him?” she said cheerfully. Such jokes had never put Aveline at ease, and they did not work now.

“He’ll jail you. I don’t doubt that,” she sniffed, taking Sidonie far too literally again. “The rest though…” she sighed. “Threaten my friends,” she said darkly. “I’m not letting that go, Captain.” Sidonie sighed, reaching for the rosters posted on the wall. 

“Well, whose route _was_ that meant to be?” She asked. Maybe there was a way to get money out of this some other way? Aveline perused the lists a moment, then shrugged. 

“Aveline!” Both of them turned, eyes falling on a short young woman with warm eyes and short blond hair. “I owe you for clearing that ambush you told Jeven about. Saved me a mess of trouble.” Aveline blinked.

“Brennan! That route was yours?” she asked. Brennan nodded, her eyes shining with relief.

“It was. Single patrol. I just got in. I’d have been dead for sure if I hit them first.” Sidonie narrowed her gaze.

“A lone guard isn’t much of a patrol,” she muttered, and Brennan gave a knowing smirk, crossing her arms.

“Shouldn’t need to be,” she said, tilting her head to one side. There was a sharpness to her gaze as she considered Sidonie’s mercenary garb. “That route was clear for weeks. First noise of out it was your big fight.” Her amber eyes flickered to Aveline. “The Captain reassigned me after he heard what you did, and I passed the satchel to Donnic for his patrol.” Aveline stiffened, and Sidonie wanted to laugh.

Not a caravan then. A hit on a guard. 

“The satchel?” she asked pointedly.

“Pay and order assignments,” Brennan explained, waving her hand a little. Her eyes flickered towards Jeven’s door, but it remained firmly closed. “Captain has us run deliveries to the outposts during light duty. It’s usually just an updated copy of the roster, but satchel for today was heavy though.” She sighed. “Anyway, thanks again, Aveline. You’re a good one.” She gave Sidonie a nod, then smiled at the other guardsman before turning away, retreating into the women’s barracks. Aveline glanced sidelong to Sidonie who let out a heavy sigh.

“So the satchel gets heavy the same day we discover an ambush?” Aveline said pointedly. Sidonie gave a wry smirk, shaking her head.

“You’re sure you want to pursue this?” she asked. If they were caught messing now...Well, Aveline had the protection of the guard, but Sidonie was a nameless refugee running with a mercenary company that was not even giving her work. Trouble with the top people was exactly what she did not want to involve herself in. Aveline just gave her a flat look.

“If a guard has been put at risk, a good Captain would want to know why,” she said simply, then turned to peruse the rosters again, tracing her finger down the lists. “And if he’s not a good Captain, _I_ want to know why.” Sidonie sighed, brushing her fringe from her face and looking about the room. 

“I bet there’s a perfectly reasonable lie that explains why your Captain arranged this,” she finally said, settling into the inevitability of being involved.

“I’d be willing to hear it,” Aveline muttered, “but not while a guard may be walking into a trap.” She paused over one of the lists, then nodded to herself. “Brennan said Donnic. Good man, Donnic. I’ve got his next route: a night walk in lowtown three days from now.” She glanced to Sidonie. “Let’s make sure his quiet patrol stays that way.” Sidonie crossed her arms.

“Fine, but you will owe me lunch again for the effort,” she said. If she could not be paid in money, at least Aveline could see her fed. Aveline gave a soft laugh.

“Here,” she said, fishing a couple coppers from her purse and pressing them into Sidonie’s hand. “Make sure your Mother gets fed.” Sidonie took them without a word, her smiling fading, and she swallowed a lump in her throat. Aveline gave her a quiet nod and a smile, then turned, leaving her standing alone by the rosters. 

Sidonie tucked the money away, then retreated from the room, keeping her head down and avoiding any trouble. She took the steps several at a time to make the trip quicker. There were people milling about in the Hightown Market, bartering over wares she would be lucky to ever afford. She pushed her way through them, giving a nod to Worthy – the dwarven rune-smith who had served the Red Iron on occasion – as she passed. In the Lowtown Market she managed to trade the coppers for a wheel of goat cheese and a loaf of bread, and was mostly satisfied with the purchase, even if it would not last long. 

Night was falling when she finally slipped into the Old Town Slums where Uncle Gamlen’s hovel was buried amidst the other run-down apartments. She climbed the steps, lined with rusted iron spikes, in the dusk, but as she neared the door she heard shouting within. She paused a moment, then wet her lips and carefully let herself in. 

Uncle Gamlen and Mother were engaged in an argument before the fire. Carver stood, arms crossed, staring sullenly into the flames, apparently unable or unwilling to intervene. Lady was sprawled across the floor, head on her paws, as fed up with the fighting as Carver appeared to be. Sidonie sighed, her shoulders slumping, and deposited the sack of food on the counter near the door.

“My children have been in servitude - _servitude_ \- for a year!” Mother was saying angrily. “They should be nobility.” This again. Ever since they arrived and learned about the estate, Mother had been struggling to adjust. The Amell name had meant something in Kirkwall since the Fourth Blight, and now even that was gone. Gamlen crossed his arms.

“If wishes were poppy, we’d all be dreaming!” he snapped back.

“You mean this is real?” Sidonie interrupted. “No wonder I can’t wake up.” Mother looked to her, despair in her eyes, and Sidonie saw Carver glanced back over his shoulder at her with angry, quiet eyes. 

“And here I thought that Fereldan you ran off with was a mage, not a jester,” Uncle Gamlen spat at Mother before turning his cold eyes on Sidonie. She saw the echo of Carver in those eyes, the same blue, the bitterness. “Your mother was supposed to marry the Comte de Launcet,” he said sharply. “And instead she ran off with some…Fereldan apostate.” Sidonie raised her chin as Gamlen’s eyes slid back to her mother. “You don’t get to stay the favorite when you do that.”

“Where is Father’s Will?” Mother demanded, her brows lowered down over her eyes. There was a cold fury – Carver’s fury – in her too. Sidonie’s lips parted a little. This was getting out of hand. “If I could just see for myself – “

“It’s not here, alright?” Uncle Gamlen hissed. “It was read; it went in the vault; no one needed to look at it again.” 

“Did Grandfather mention Mother in his will at all?” Sidonie asked as Carver drew up alongside her. 

“Our father died when you were still in pinafores, girl,” Uncle Gamlen sniffed, his eyes sliding between Carver and herself. “You can hardly expect me to remember.” Except that was a bullshit excuse, because of course he would remember. And that meant Uncle Gamlen was lying. Carver agreed because he gave Uncle Gamlen a cold glare.

“Oh, of course not,” he muttered. “Why should _you_ do something reasonable?” 

“Take us to the vault,” Sidonie said darkly. Uncle Gamlen gave her an incredulous stare.

“Can’t! It’s in the cellar of the estate! Someone else lives there now!” Carver crossed his arms at her side. 

“What daft bastard leaves _that_ behind?!” he glowered, and Sidonie nodded.

“It was old news,” Gamlen said emphatically, turning his back on them all and glaring at the flames. “You think I’ve been sitting here for twenty five years waiting for Leandra to slink back?” 

“Who bought the estate, Gamlen?” Mother asked firmly. “Perhaps I could speak to them. Was it the Reinhardts?” 

“No one you know,” Uncle Gamlen muttered, then looked up at her, anger in his eyes. “Get used to Lowtown, Sister. That’s where we’re going to stay.” Mother glared back, then turned on her heel, stalking into the other room, the door slamming behind her. Uncle Gamlen turned his face away, then sniffed and turned, heading for the door. “I’m going to get drunk,” he muttered and then let himself out, slamming the front door just like Mother had slammed the bedroom door. 

Carver watched him go, then looked to Sidonie, shaking his head.

“Maker, what a mess,” he said as Sidonie turned for the satchel to pull out the bread and cheese. She tossed him the cheese, and he set it on the table, taking a seat. Sidonie yanked the kitchen knife from a small cupboard under the counter and then sank into the spot across from him to saw off some of the bread for them both. Two meals a day. Luxury.

“I want to make things better for Mother,” Carver said quietly, watching her slice through the bread, “but some of what Gamlen says…I’m having a hard time hating him.” 

“I don’t hate him,” Sidonie said. “He’s our Uncle. He took us in when he didn’t have to, even if it was just looking out for his own interests.” She sawed another slice of bread, the knife crunching through the hard crust. Carver shook his head.

“Playing caretaker for someone else’s life, stuck in their shadow? That’s no way to live.” Sidonie paused a moment, knife halfway through the bread, and then finally she finished the last of the slicing. Her eyes flickered up to him under her lashes. 

“And there it is,” she said quietly. Carver stared back. That anger that had been simmering quietly for years was back in full force at the news about his application for the guard. Carver’s permanent burden of trapped potential. But she was done carrying that burden of blame for him. He could leave, go if he wanted. He could make his own way. She could not watch over him forever. And she had her own limitations to contend with. It was her neck, not his, on the line.

“Look,” he said coldly, “if you want to join the fight over who lost the most, fine. But I never lived here. Mother even gave me her old key to try and stir something.” Sidonie was surprised she had even kept it. “But I didn’t know Grandfather,” Carver finished. “Finding his will doesn’t matter to me.” Sidonie let out a sharp exhale and slammed the knife point first into the wood of the table.

“We’re scraping to bribe Bartrand and you don’t think having an estate would help?” she demanded.

“Sure it would,” he sniffed, reaching to yank the knife from the table and then turning his attention to the cheese. “But it won’t be free. How much unwanted attention will warring with slavers get us?” That gave Sidonie pause. She leaned forward in her seat as he began to accumulate a pile of thin cheese slices. 

“What have you heard?” she asked. Carver still did not look at her, concentrating on the cheese, but he did sigh.

“Uncle’s a chatty drunk. He was up to his neck and signed everything over. That’s who has the estate.” He set down the knife, reaching for some of the bread. “Apparently the most extensive wine cellar in Kirkwall is now a slave highway from the undercity. That’s the family legacy.” Sidonie watched as he layered some of his cheese onto the bread and then began eating his way through it with a disgruntled look. Carver could make even eating cheese an exercise in brooding. 

“I don’t know about you,” Sidonie said quietly, reaching for her own bread and cheese, “but that makes me a little angry.” His eyes finally flickered up to meet hers then, Amell eyes bright and cold.

“We agree at last.” Sidonie settled into her seat, leaning her elbows on the table. 

“So, forgetting everything else, what would you do with slavers?” she asked over her dinner. He gave a mirthless sneer. 

“Only one thing their kind deserves,” was his answer. Sidonie raised her chin a little.

“We agree at last,” she echoed. He sighed.

“Alright, Sister.” His eyes were dangerous now. “If the key works, we’ll clear the estate from the undercity up.” Sidonie gave a nod, then took a bit of her bread and cheese.

“Then tonight we hunt slavers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ABOUT EWALD:  
> Ewald is the Captain who stands watch at the Gallows when the Hawkes first arrive in Kirkwall. He is the one you help when the other refugees revolt, and says he will help find Gamlen for you. The reason for his departure from his post is never specified, so I've decided it had something to do with Hawke's lyrium smuggling. Given that Knight-Commander Meredith and Grand Cleric Elthina were responsible for establishing the Viscountcy of Marlow Dumar and his office oversees the City Guard, it is not implausible that Meredith's influence could result in the removal of Ewald from his post for failure to prevent lyrium smuggling, especially since lyrium is so important to Templars.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel is summoned to Denerim; Eideann and Alistair receive troubling news from Orzammar; Sidonie and Carver enter the old Amell estate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence, gore (mild).
> 
> Comments always welcome! 
> 
> Hiatus as of 11/27 Will begin posting again mid-december. Thanks for the patience! <3 ~HR

He did not really remember climbing into bed. The blankets were tangled about him, Pounce asleep on his pillow the nearest reminder he had to Anders’ presence there not long ago. 

Nestled in the covers, a half empty bottle of wine, a moment of weakness, a determination to feel sorry for himself for a moment. Arl Nathaniel Howe of Amaranthine, sulking in the darkness of his chambers, blearily waking to find half a bottle of sharp wine and someone else’s purring cat in his bed. Maker’s blood. 

He set his head back against the headboard, staring across the room in empty light, trying to think his way out of all the responsibility suddenly upon him. The Warden blood pulsed in his veins, reminding him of duties yet undone, and for a moment he wondered if this tired feeling was not the same he had seen in Eideann’s eyes, and he had nothing like her excuse. 

He drew a deep breath, a heavy sigh, and then chuckled bitterly at himself for the effort spent. Soon he would need to rise, to be about the business of ruling an Arling he did not want. He carefully reached to scratch Pounce’s ears, and the cat stirred, then rose to crawl into his lap, purring. And at least one of them was happy. Nate glanced down at the soft ears and silky fur, then closed his eyes and pressed his lips into a thin line.

How long now? How many days? He had forgotten to count again, because in the end it did not matter. He had his own business to be about, and what did it matter to him that his lover had fled his bed and gone missing. A sting to the pride. Nothing more.

Except…

A knock disturbed him and he started, as did Pounce who dashed off under the bed for safety. It took him a moment to realize what it was he had even heard. And then he sighed as he heard the knock again.

“My Lord!” 

“What is it?” 

“A rider, my Lord,” the voice called back through the door. “From Denerim.” He gave a bitter laugh again, then shoved the blankets from his legs and swung them from the bed, forcing himself up. 

“Cousland, I swear to the Maker…” he murmured, but crossed to the door and cracked it open enough to see one of the Silver Knights waiting. The man gave a bow of head and held a paper forth, and Nathaniel opened the door further, reaching to take the letter. It bore the royal seal, printed in red wax. He sneered, cracked the seal, and unfurled the paper.

He scanned the words, then snapped the paper shut again and shook his head.

“Fetch Seneschal Garavel,” he said quietly, “Mistress Woolsey, and Warden Sigrun. I need to speak to them within the hour.” The Silver Knight gave a bow, then turned away, and Nathaniel shut the door, looking aside to his chambers and then running both his hands through his hair. Feeling it all uneven and at odd angles, he grimaced and set to doing something about that first. And then he crawled into a set of riding clothes, because Maker if Cousland was summoning him he was going to have go fairly soon. She was not patient enough to sit and wait for him to answer when it suited him. He considered his Warden leathers a moment before grimacing and packing them into a bag. Best to go prepared. Eideann could be summoning him for either reason.

When he was presentable, he emerged from his chambers and took the shortest route to the Great Hall where he found Seneschal Garavel, Mistress Woolsey, and a tired looking Sigrun lounging about. Sigrun was on his throne, her feet swung up onto the arm rest as she picked at the fur that covered the seat. When she saw him, she gave a grin.

“Lieutenant,” she said simply. “Any reason you decided we all needed to suffer nights of no sleep again?” He joined them near the head of the room, shaking his head.

“Get your feet off my furniture.” She let them drop and pushed herself up to stand atop the dais, arms crossed. 

“Well?” she asked archly.

“I need to travel to Denerim by order of Queen Eideann. I shall be leaving you three, Maker preserve us, in charge. Sigrun, Warden business only.” He gave her a pointed look.

“I can’t come with you?” she asked. He grimaced, then finally sighed.

“On second thought, you had better, or else Maker only knows the trouble you’ll be getting into here on your own.” With Anders gone and Rolan dead, only he and Sigrun remained. He glanced to the Seneschal. “If the need arises, you know where to find me, otherwise notice can be sent to Keenan at the Peak if need be.” The Seneschal gave a wary look, then nodded at last, wearily. They were all of them weary. 

“When will you be returning?” Mistress Woolsey asked pertly. Nathaniel shook his head.

“Eideann made no mention of the details, but if I know her, I may be gone for longer than expected.” 

“Then I shall take over your official duties in your absence as your secretary,” Mistress Woolsey said simply, and Nathaniel gave her a grateful smile.

“That would be appreciated.” Now if only she would keep them. He did not want them back. 

He glanced again to Sigrun who shot him a grin. Then he nodded. 

“So be it,” he said finally. “We will be leaving within the hour. Sigrun, be ready to go.”

“As you say, Lieutenant,” the dwarf said wryly before giving a small bow of head. Seneschal Garavel and Mistress Woolsey bowed their own farewells before slipping away, leaving him alone with the other Warden. She simply watched them go, hands on hips, then grinned. “So, what do you think the Commander wants?” Nathaniel gave her a flat look, then a shake of head.

“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” he murmured, mulling it over, “but bring weapons. Knowing our luck it will turn out to be far more exciting than she originally planned.” Sigrun just gave a soft laugh, then nodded, turning for the door. As she stepped from the dais, she called back to him over her shoulder.

“Chin up, Lieutenant! You can’t sulk your way out of it, and with any luck we can go into the Deep Roads again.” Nathaniel gave a low groan as the dwarf slipped out, laughing, and then closed his eyes.

Maker, if she wanted him to go back into the Deep Roads again…

He turned the other way, striding across the hall towards the entrance out into the courtyard. Eideann Cousland was going to be the death of him yet, he just knew it. The only question was when.

***

“Eideann, you’re making me nervous.” She looked up quickly and caught sight of Alistair in a crimson shirt and a dark leather jerkin watching her near the fireplace. She glanced down, realizing she had been pacing, and forced herself to stop, to stand still a moment. He gave her an amused smirk. “You always pace right before you make a decision,” he said, laughter in his voice.

“We need to make one soon,” she replied. Her eyes traced the lines of ink on the parchment in her hands, the dwarven seal heavy embossed wax under her fingers. She wet her lips, then shook her head, skirts swishing about her ankles as she took to pacing again. “This can’t go unanswered, and we’ve been silent in Orzammar too long, especially after the Legion was lost at Kal’Hirol.” Alistair pushed himself up from his seat and crossed to catch her wrists in his hands, standing before her to block the way forward and tilting his head to meet her eyes.

“We can’t fix the world, love.” She met his amber gaze, saw it burning like flickering embers before her, and sighed.

“Nor can we do nothing.” Alistair took the letter from her hands and carefully leaned in to kiss her cheek.

“Troublesome news does not immediately demand an answer. We are not the only Wardens in Ferelden, nor the only nobles.”

“We are, however, the only ones who have earned the respect of Orzammar’s Assembly and King,” she pointed out as he pulled away, skimming the letter himself for the umpteenth time. 

“I refuse,” he said simply, “to let you out of my sight again until after the wedding.” She opened her mouth to protest, but the doors to the parlor swung open and the both of them looked up as Nesiara swept in. The elven woman had a wreath of holly in her light hair and a rich green velvet gown against the chill.

“Your Majesties,” she said quietly. “Arl Howe of Amaranthine and Warden Sigrun.” Alistair exchanged a glance with Eideann and then nodded.

“Show them in, before Eideann starts arguing.”

“I pick my battles,” she murmured and he gave a soft laugh.

Nesiara ventured a light smile, comfortable by now with the ease between them, and bowed her head a little, stepping back to admit the other two Wardens.

Sigrun came first, giving Eideann a wink, and then Nathaniel Howe followed with a dour look. 

“Sigrun, Nate,” Eideann said with a smile. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“Gotten into trouble so soon?” Sigrun teased, then gave a nod to Alistair. “King Alistair, always a pleasure.” 

“Some more so than others,” he replied with a grin. Nathaniel sighed.

“Theirin, Cousland,” he said simply. “I assume there’s more to this than a simple chat.” Eideann’s smile slipped a little, and Alistair held up the letter he was holding. 

“News,” he nodded.

“And by news,” Nathaniel sighed, “you mean business.” Eideann sank into an armchair before the fire, offering the others the empty seats nearby and reaching for a glass of warm mulled wine against the winter chill.

“Perhaps,” she said softly in reply. Nathaniel stared at them, then crossed to pour himself a goblet of the wine and downed half before he finally nodded. Sigrun was eyeing the wine with an intrigued look. Eideann poured her a glass too and then nodded to Nesiara, who slipped out, shutting the door quietly in her wake. “It is a matter of some delicacy.”

“I’ll say,” Sigrun remarked, sipping at the wine and staring with narrowed eyes at the seal on the letter. “That’s a noble mark. House Dace?” She glanced to Alistair, then Eideann. “Is it from King Bhelen?”

“No, but that is another of our problems,” Alistair murmured, and he passed the letter to Sigrun, who was reaching for it. The dwarf skimmed the text slowly, with the delayed gaze of someone who did not read strongly yet. 

“Sod, their writing is awful,” she muttered, and set down the goblet. “It is House Dace though.” 

“Yes, and their news is...troubling.” Eideann settled back into her chair a little, eyes flickering to Nathaniel. “More importantly, since the loss of the Legion at Kal’Hirol, we have made no moves on Orzammar, and the time has come to do so now, before we lose what influence we have there. I cannot lose the alliance with Orzammar while Orlais waits like a wolf in the wings, watching to see how we recover from the Blight, and if there are corpses to pick clean. Ferelden has been tested this past year and a half. There are those abroad who would see is brought to heel again, like the dogs they think we are.” Beside the hearth, Angus gave a snort and shifted. “We earned the respect of the dwarves in the Blight, and I aim to keep it. Orzammar is a buffer against the Orlesian Game. But that letter…” Sigrun’s eyes narrowed again and she shook her head, reading aloud.

“ _They called it Amgarrak, Victory, out of arrogance or optimism. They hoped to earn a victory for the dwarven people by recreating Caridin’s research, but the Thaig was abandoned, the researchers lost. The Deep Roads swallowed Amgarrak and our dream of reclaiming our former glory. While the darkspawn ravaged the surface, we sent and expedition to uncover the Thaig. My brother was with them. They never returned._

_I write to you, Warden, because you have accomplished things others have declared impossible. Help me find my brother. Bring him home. This is a matter of great sensitivity, and I can trust no one but you._

_Ever your humble servant,  
Jerrik Dace._”

Nathaniel gave a cool stare at the paper, then pressed his lips into a thin line.

“It is not unusual to fund expeditions during Blights,” Sigrun muttered. “But this...Amgarrak...it was to make golems?” She looked a little angry. She had been at Bownammar, at Cadash Thaig. “If it was found, made operational…” 

“I have no doubt that King Bhelen would seize any opportunity he might. It was half the reason I put him in power in the first place,” Eideann admitted. “Men as hungry for power as Bhelen are easy to predict and always dangerous.” Alistair shook his head.

“The Anvil of the Void was problematic enough.” Nathaniel shook his head.

“Golems. You summoned me over golems?” 

“No,” Eideann said, giving him a disgruntled look. “I called you here because I need your help, Nate.” She set aside the goblet. “The expedition went missing, but we have no idea the cause. The darkspawn are fleeing back underground, and we do not move now, it may be too late to get a firm foothold on the Thaigs we can still reclaim. Orzammar will come under seige again, and when it does, Bhelen will not stop at throwing his forces against the darkspawn tide. If Amgarrak was used to recreate golems, and then lost to the Deep Roads, then its rediscovery could lead to the oppression of thousands.” She drew a breath. “My worse fear, however, is that they have fallen into the hands of a darkspawn like the Architect. If what little we know is true, he is not alone, and a power like the ability to turn people into war machines that feel no pain and are made of metal and stone...Maker, if the darkspawn had that, the Deep Roads truly would be lost.” She sighed. “If we do not turn our attention to the Deep Roads now, then we lose this chance, this one chance, to win some of it back. And we cannot be safe on the surface when the Deep Roads are teeming with monsters.” Nathaniel grimaced.

“So you’re going back,” he said quietly. Eideann felt a rush of fear, a grim realization that it was precisely what she intended. She opened her mouth, but Alistair headed her off, considering her with knowing eyes.

“Don’t give her ideas,” he muttered, “you know what she is like.” Nathaniel quirked a small smile and Eideann felt a flicker of irritation. Then she sighed.

“Well, we can’t do nothing,” she said firmly.

“Then _I_ shall go,” Alistair replied, giving her a fierce look like he would not be argued with. 

“No,” Sigrun said simply, “you won’t. You’ll focus on ruling this kingdom, and you’ll leave the Deep Roads to a Legionnaire.” She considered them both quietly. “An entire Legion was lost taking Kal’Hirol. They know the dangers and will want their outpost back. Plus, it was the Legion who helped you clear Cadash Thaig, Commander, and the Legion who helped do battle on the surface when the need was great.” Eideann sighed, her eyes flickering to SIgrun.

“Ah, my friend,” she breathed, shaking her head. “Always so brave.” 

“Already dead,” Sigrun said with a smile.

“And that is why I cannot send you,” she said quietly. “Though you can, of course, come with me.”

“You aren’t going, Cousland. You’re going to park your bottom on your throne and rule Ferelden.” Eideann glanced to Nathaniel. Alistair was watching him with with the ghost of a smirk in amusement for the tone. Nathaniel simply pushed himself up. “Sigrun can reach the Legion, begin the process of reclaiming these Thaigs you want to hold down. But Sigrun is, as you say, already dead, and Casteless to boot. That means little for us up here, but it still means something in Orzammar, Bhelen or no.” Eideann looked away, studying the pattern of the upholstery near her head with quiet eyes. She could feel Nathaniel’s eyes boring into her, pinpoints of Coastland grey in the dim firelight. “Sigrun also does not play politics. And this letter,” he snatched it from the dwarf’s hands, crumpling a little, “is so thick with politics you can smell it.” He sighed. “But I too have heard the rumors of whisperings in Orlesian Courts. Even Kirkwall, where the Harriman’s have supported the Fereldan restoration when most of the nobility turn againt us, will not be a friend forever. We _are_ weak. And there is only one person I trust to hold strong against political plots.” His gaze flickered to Alistair. “And only one I trust to stop her from doing mad things like drinking poison.” Alistair gave a slight smile, then glanced to Eideann, who knew what Nathaniel was trying to say under his pretty words.

“I can’t let you do this,” she said softly. “I know you and Anders were close, and I can’t let you go running into the Deep Roads now. Amaranthine needs an Arl, and - “

“With all due respect, Cousland, you can’t stop me. And I’m hardly going to go traipsing into a darkspawn den on purpose. Orzammar will not be Kal’Hirol.”

“No,” Eideann agreed, “it may be worse. Kal’Hirol was obvious about trying to kill us.” Nathaniel gave a bitter shake of head.

“You made me a Warden, a Warden-Leiutenant no less. If you don’t go and Theirin here stays with you, that leaves Keenan and myself, and it was not Keenan you summoned here. He’s a good man, Cousland, and dedicated, but he’s honest and direct, and me? I’m a liar and a politician. You need one of those if you want to sway the dwarves. Political clout and Warden rank carry weight in Orzammar. And you knew it, or else you would never have sent for me, because again, that’s why I’m here.”

“Nate,” Eideann said quietly, but he held up a hand, turning his face away.

“No, Eideann. Since he left I’ve been trying to hold my shit together. I’ve got things that I need to get done, people depending on me. And I’m tired of it.” His eyes flickered to hers, knowing and quiet. “You know how that feels.” She gave a soft nod. “Then let me go. Let me do this. Let me vanish into the Deep Roads and kill darkspawn until it makes sense in my head again what I’m bothering for, and when I come back I’ll be a better man for it.” 

“If we went ourselves,” Alistair said quietly, watching Eideann with a gentle gaze, “we’d look to be in Bhelen’s pocket after all. Dace...what do we know of House Dace.” Eideann closed her eyes a moment.

“Surfacer connections, likely they’re involved with the Merchant Guilds up here. I imagine they’re Bhelen supporters give his reforms, but...it’s difficult to tell.”

“They rival House Helmi,” Sigrun said simply. “Their expedition was funded by a lot of surfacer coin because they lost a lot of money dealing with merchants, I heard.” She glanced down, toying with the ring that hung on the Warden chain about her neck. “Varlan used to tell me some things. I think, if they were operating under surfacer funds, there is benefit in seeing the expedition’s fate known.” Eideann pondered a minute, and Nathaniel nodded.

“I agree,” he said simply. “The dwarven merchants guild has a presence in every country, including Orlais, here in Denerim, and across the Free Marches. Their voice is influential, and we can assume that this additional expedition to follow the first is probably funded by surfacers as well. Sigrun has the right of it.” He glanced to Alistair a moment, who nodded.

“The decision is yours, love,” he said softly. “You’re the Warden Commander. But with the Wardens at the Peak involved in strategic operations, getting Legionnaire support to them is all the more important, as is ensuring the support of the deshyrs if King Bhelen wants to drag his feet. And Arl Howe and Sigrun are more than capable of seeing it done.” Eideann sighed, bowing her head a little.

“So bit it,” she capitulated, “but be safe, both of you. If the expedition did fall to darkspawn - “

“We know how to be quiet,” Nathaniel assured her.

“And we know how to do damage,” Sigrun added. Eideann gave them a weak smile, then pushed herself from her seat, skirts brushing the carpets as she crossed them, pacing again.

“Then I will see the papers drawn up guaranteeing passage and naming you as the representatives of the Fereldan crown. If you journey via Highever, Fergus shall see you well stocked for the Deep Roads, or else you’ll be eating nug for the duration.” Sigrun grinned, and Eideann smiled a little at the laughter in her eyes. Then she reached to touch Alistair’s shoulder, and he caught her hand. She glanced back towards the fireplace. “Nate,” she said quietly. “I wish you peace. I’m sorry to ask you to play politics for me again.”

“Cousland, it isn’t always about you,” Nathaniel said simply, then bowed. “I will retire until dinner,” he suggested. “I trust I can keep the letter?” Eideann nodded and Nathaniel pocketed it in silence before fixing his eyes on them both. “It is...good to see you again,” he added. 

“And good to see you as well, my friend,” Eideann replied. “Rest well. And thank you. Both of you.” 

***

“I don’t know if this will help,” Carver said grimly as they stepped down the final rugged steps into Darktown, Lady padding along between them, “but I do feel like hitting someone.” Sidonie glanced about, taking stock of the paths before them. Ragged refugees and hardened criminals huddled in corners or down further into the sewers watched them with cold, angry eyes. The air seemed thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, filth, and hate. Sidonie could feel the creeping desperation weaving through the Veil there and shrank back from it a little. She was not eager for a fight there. 

Instead she drew a quiet breath, wetting her lips and giving Carver a nod. He could lead the way for once, since it was he who had the key.

They had only been to Darktown a few times before, mostly with the Red Iron about work for Meeran, and Sidonie once to pawn off the lyrium she had kept from the run with Athenril she had been forced into. If it had not been for Uncle Gamlen, they might have been forced to live down in those sewers. 

Then again, if it had not been for Uncle Gamlen, they would probably have never made it into the city in the first place. 

Darktown was not the sort of place anyone wanted to visit, and that was doubly true at night. SIdonie kept her head down, following Carver across the uneven steps and platforms where Tevinter had once mined jet from the cliffs. Passages twisted away, hewn from rock and polished smooth with too many years, a maze of twisting darkness down below. Sidonie had heard that when Tevinter ruled Kirkwall, they had performed experiments secreted away in tunnels far below them now. Some of the filth of Darktown made their coin digging through sewers to find lost artifacts and relics. Some were even successful. 

Sidonie could feel why Kirkwall might prove such a valuable center of study. The entire place bristled with a splintering, shredded Veil. She was never far from it. Her nightmares, sleeping on the hard wood of Gamlen’s spare room, left her sweating and panting, worse than anything she had ever had before. Kirkwall plagued a mage’s dreams, and pressed in on their waking moments with a foreboding strength and darkness. She felt, bit by bit, like she were being stifled.

But there was power in it too, a raw energy that seeped into the world, and if a mage was careful, the power to be had was enormous.

_Magic must serve what is best in me, not that which is most base,_ she heard a soft voice say inside her head and pushed the thoughts of power away. Kirkwall was temptation, raw and rippling, uncontrollable and threatening. Kirkwall was her enemy. Kirkwall, and its shattered Veil.

She hurried down the steps after Carver, looking up as a pool of deep moonlight cast across her face and cast Lady’s brown fur in a cascade of silver at her side. One wall of Darktown spilled out into the channel that had been carved by magic to make the Kirkwall port. Far below, the sound of waves echoed back at them, a promise that maybe some things could be swept clean. But it was a falting promise there in Darktown, where even the waters were toxic and polluted. The silver moonlight flickered on the dark sea where it gurgled into the channel, a roiling mess overlooked by the bronze Twins. The Twins were dark in the night too, curled over themselves high above, massive remnants of Tevinter’s might set into the cliffs. Sidonie shook her head and turned her face away from the nearest. She had had more than enough of suffering twins for a lifetime.

It brought a pang of pain to suddenly think of Bethany. She focused on Carver, the muscles of his shoulders, his height towering over her, and sighed. When had he grown so tall? So strong? She could not remember those years. In her mind he was still a small, scrawny boy, black hair always poking up at odd angles, throwing fits or crying because something was not going his way. 

Well, perhaps not much had changed. The lightest of smiles touched her lips and she glanced back to the channel, separated from them by the barest of rickety fences. She thought of Lothering, of rolling fields, of Bethany coaxing flowers to grow with a quiet laugh.

_I remember,_ she thought quietly. _And I will never forget._

_It is all your fault._ Another thing she would never forget. 

She drew a deep breath, glancing back over her other shoulder where a battered looking boy was watching them with angry eyes, then pushed onward before he got any ideas. She did not want to start a fight. Being good at it did not make it right. 

She hated being a mercenary. She hated what this life had made her do. She was good at it, and that made her hate it more, because she did not want to be that sort of person. She wanted to have just enough money to get by, to spend her time drinking or gambling or tumbling handsome boys in alleyways, maybe even a few pretty girls. She wanted Lothering, where things were simple, where she could make her living with her hands, without magic. 

She had never been settled in an occupation, but she had made a good tracker, catching all sorts of hares and wild birds to sell in Lothering’s little market. She had used little tricks for that, force magic, the barest of shields. She had used ice - and she was quite bad at ice spells when all was said and done - to keep things preserved while she was out. She had learned it from her father, and used it to do good. They had never been hungry before, never been scraping for coin.

Now she used force to kill people instead of hares. Now she used fire to burn instead of ice to preserve. Now she used shields to save herself from attackers. And they were always hungry, always scraping for coin.

Varric was wrong. They would be lucky if they could pull together the coin to eat that week, nevermind help fund an expedition. She grimaced and sighed.

Carver looked back at her with a quiet look, and she could see the weariness in him too. 

_Ah, Little Brother._

He stopped abruptly, glancing up towards a tunnel set back from the rest. Against the wall within, a ladder climbed into the darkness. Sidonie pursed her lips musingly and gave a soft laugh. 

“Well, this looks like the place. If the cellars go this far...Maybe we were important?” Carver said frankly. At his heel, Lady sniffed, then scurried across the jet stone to growl at the ladder. Sidonie glanced around. 

“Oh good,” she said simply. “Our wine cellar lets out into the sewers.” She glanced to Carver with a wide grin. “Do you think that’s because the wine is literally shit, or just because it was all illegally imported on the backs of indentured slaves?” He gave her a glare, then crossed to the ladder. Sidonie gave a soft laugh. “Forgetting someone, aren’t you?” she said, pointedly glancing to Lady. Carver gave a low hiss through his teeth, then climbed a few of the rungs to reach up to where a trapdoor hung, heavily padlocked and secure from intruders with thick chains. He yanked Mother’s key from the pouch at his belt and there was the sound of grinding metal as the old locks creaked open and then fell with a clatter. Then he carefully pushed the trapdoor up, and his head and shoulders disappeared.

He emerged a moment later back down the ladder, bending for Lady, who was so large he grunted under the weight, and then he hauled her up - an impressive feat of strength in itself - and thrust her through the trapdoor into the wine cellar before following her up.

“You’re a monster, you know that?” Sidonie muttered as she climbed the ladder after him, then let the trapdoor slowly lower back down behind her. Carver gave her a displeased noise but made no reply, instead reaching for his greatsword. It slid from its sheathe with a quiet chime, and Sidonie felt the sound cut through her like a wave of fear. “Carver,” she said softly, her eyes staring at the steel in his hands. “I...we never spoke of this, but…” He glanced to her with wary eyes. “Carver, what would you do if I became an abomination?” His eyes were cold as he surveyed her.

“Kill you,” he said simply. “Don’t ask daft questions.” And then he motioned to the door. “Everyone we see dies.” Sidonie gave a simple nod, then carefully scrubbed at Lady’s fur a moment before sending the mabari off. 

“Let’s do this as quietly as possible,” she said. “I don’t want to alert more than we have to. We don’t know how many of them are here.” He gave a nod, then moved forward, carrying that greatsword like it was nothing, and she gave a small smile at the image of him hoisting Lady through the trapdoor. The she reached for her staff, reached for the Veil, and followed.

The place was full of boxes and barrels of wine. Sacks of old goods sat about on shelves and in corners, some bearing the dyed sigil of Kirkwall’s port authority showing they had been shipped in at some point in the past. Here and there were a few old books, tattered and browned pages crinkling as she opened them, but none were of much use to her: history and the like. She might get some coin selling them to someone, but she doubted it would be much.

They did not encounter the first slaver until they reached the bottom of the steps. He came from nowhere, whistling to himself as he emerged from a second room. Sidonie silenced him immediately with a blast of force, yanking him forward. Carver ran him through. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

“One,” Carver said simply and then gave her a nod before starting up the creaking steps.

Every step was a nightmare, a loud groan like the house itself was tired of playing this game. The lamps were lit, proof that people frequented these parts of the house often enough to need them, and they cast dark and flickering shadows and orange kaleidoscopic patterns across the wooden floorboards and sandstone beams. 

Sidonie heard the next group of slavers laughing amongst themselves before the came into view. She exchanged a look with Carver, and Lady bristled, giving a low growl. And then it was chaos, the sort of chaos only mercenaries and a mabari could unleash at once. She forewent fire. No need to set the floorboards alight and burn the house down with them inside. Anyway, force was enough. She hammered them down, charging forward with Carver and Lady, until they reached the toppled slavers and set upon them with blades instead. Blood splattered across the floorboards at their feet, lined their blades in the orange lamplight. Sidonie’s halberd blade glowed with force energy that sent it whirling, almost too quickly for her to keep up. At her side, Carver was holding his own. And Lady tore through the slavers like a rabid wolf. 

When they were dispatched, Sidonie stepped back, considering the chamber and trying to work out the next step. She did not hold with real plans. She made things up as she went along. 

Her eyes fell upon a shield settled on the wall, and she twisted a little to consider it. Red knotwork painted into a tangled representation of two birds stood out at her from old grey metal. She narrowed her gaze.

“That’s the Amell crest, I think,” Carver said flatly, coming to join her. “Mother described it to me once.”

“It’s birds,” Sidonie said. “Hawks?” Carver gave a sneer, looking away. “Shall we hang it, do you think?” Sidonie teased. “Won’t Mother be proud.” 

“Put that above your door and you’d better have the ties to back it up,” Carver said grimly, “otherwise you just look old.”

“I _am_ old. Older than you,” Sidonie said, watching as he turned. She sighed, digging instead through some of the barrels where she found old clothes and a package of letters bound together in string. She narrowed her gaze a little before recognizing some of the writing. Half of them were in her father’s hand. Sidonie set her staff against the floor, leaning it into the crook of her arm so it would not fall, and then she carefully unwound the string and flipped through the old letters, her eyes catching on a name. 

“Tobrius?” she mused softly, aloud but to herself. Carver looked over, and she shook her head. “Nothing.” They were marked on Gallows paper; she recognized the seal from the journey a year prior. Had he been a mage? She pursed her lips, then carefully slipped the letters into the pouch at her belt, pondering.

“Are you finished? We’ll be here all night.” 

“Coming,” she said simply, collecting her staff and flipping it over in her hand. It began to glow again with magic, almost of its own accord. She glanced at it, then fortified her mind and carried on. Even in a building owned by the Amells, Kirkwall was no friend to her.

They emerged through another door to see the cellar steps leading up towards the stone corridors of the mansion above. Sidonie grimaced, considering them, then jumped as someone moved in the corner of her vision. She reached for force, but it was buffeted aside as another mage clad in black Tevinter robes, gave a shake of head. 

“Did that bastard Gamlen put you up to this?” the man said in a cold voice. “I knew I shoulda slit his throat.” He reached for magic and Sidonie moved, ripping force across the floorboards and knocking the man back. A shield shimmered into place, but Carver drove right through it like a man possessed, greatsword hacking through the slaver. At last the Tevinter fell dead to the floor, staff clattering across the wood boards and spinning out of reach. And then they froze, waiting. 

But there were no more. The slavers, it seemed, were more than happy keeping to the cellars for the time being. Sidonie swallowed, sidestepping the body, and carefully climbing the steps.

“That has to be the vault,” Carver said as they emerged through a door at the top of the steps into a small corridor beside a chamber closed tightly with more locks. “If there’s anything to learn about the family, that’s where it is.” Sidonie motioned for him to try the key, and one by one the locks fell away, until at last the door gave a low bang and then gave when she pushed it open.

The chamber was full of more Amell junk. Sidonie bent to examine a small chest, digging out a bag of silver and tarnished jewelry and gemstones, and then tucked that away. Useful now if nothing else. 

Carver watched the door warily as she poured through the chests and cupboards until at last she found a file of papers. She rifled through those as well before finding the one she needed. She placed the rest down carefully, then considered the paper, crossing to join Carver at the door.

“So this is it? Grandfather’s will?” Carver said, sounding less than impressed as they considered the spidery, official looking writing notarized by a Chantry cleric and a member of the Viscount’s office. He sighed as she carefully tucked that away with the other letters. “Let’s just take it back to Mother and be done with it.” Sidonie gave a quiet nod.

“I don’t think there’s any point delaying the news,” she agreed, then considered the last staircase. “Dare we leave by the front door?” 

“I’m not crawling back down the sewers,” he said simply, and Sidonie smirked.

“Then let’s hope no guards are watching us leave.” 

They climbed the steps to find the upper house a little lived in but technically empty. Sidonie insisted on having a look first, gazing at the wrought iron chandelier in the darkness. The only light in these rooms came from the flickering of embers in the hearths. Carver stood, arms crossed, in the hall with Lady while Sidonie gave herself the tour. 

She found a massive library filled to bursting with books. There were armchairs where one might sit to read, and a desk for writing letters. The kitchens were small but cozy, set off a small dining room. The upstairs bedrooms were in various states of disrepair, the largest directly off the balcony and clearly the one most in use. Sidonie considered it quietly, tried to picture Mother and Uncle Gamlen running about the chambers as children, and could not. She shook her head with a sad little smile.

“Sister!” Carver called impatiently, so Sidonie drew away. She took the marble steps carefully onto the Tevinter tile flood and gave him a small smile.

“Alright, alright,” she said simply. “Just...checking to see if they kept any food.”

“In the bedrooms?” Carver said archly. “Come on, it’s nearly dawn.” He pointed with his chin to the tall windows where the grey light of morning was starting to show, the beginnings of misty twilight. Sidonie sighed, then nodded, and they made their way out towards the foyer. 

The door unlocked with Carver’s key, and he bent to lock it up tight again, just to make sure no one knew they had been there. Sidonie stood, waiting for him, this time the impatient one herself. She hated Hightown. She was too obvious in Hightown. No one carried a halberd in Hightown. 

No one carried a halberd anywhere but her. She grimaced.

“Carver…” she said softly, and he waved her off, and then the tumblers fell into place and Sidonie gave a sigh of relief. She was about to turn, to head for the Lowtown steps, when there was the rustle of foliage, and she snapped about to see a familiar face lounging against the vine-covered wall of the estate with a knowing smirk.

“Athenril,” Sidonie said in a low hiss. The elven smuggler just gave her a quiet look, arms crossed loosely as she looked them up and down.

“Hello, Hawke. Long time no see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ON HOUSE DACE AND THE AMGARRAK STORYLINE:  
> House Dace has in fact been strapped for cash since a business venture goes badly for them. In the Noble Dwarf Origin of DA:O, one of House Dace's members tries to convince the PC to join with House Dace to provide caste recognition for surface dwarves, but Lady Helmi will tell the PC that House Dace lost this money and only wants this recognition so that they might be able to collect the amount to satisfy the debt from surface members of House Dace. Confronting Lord Dace on this will get confirmation from him that he was indeed truthful. One of the outcomes of this is that the PC can fight an honor proving with House Dace's heir Mandar Dace to make up for the insult to House Aeducan. It is possible for Mandar to be killed in this instance. For Dances's canon sake, we shall assume this did in fact occur, which makes Jerrik Dace (the nephew of Lord Anwer Dace) the new heir and future head of the house. This would explain why he was so eager to find Amgarrak (and why his brother went with the expedition). Since House Dace has no money, Dances established it was borrowed from the Tethras brothers on the surface, and Varric also helped to fund the rescue mission to save the expedition members. This puts us on course for Golems of Amgarrak, which in this instance has been left to Sigrun and Nathaniel rather than Eideann. Time-wise Golems of Amgarrak appears to happen very very quickly after Origins and Awakenings, and in order to make all the Dances timeline together, it is happening right now concurrently with Sidonie trying to get funds for the Tethras Expedition. Bartrand is having issues funding the Tethras Expedition because he has already spent so much money on the Amgarrak Expeditions, therefore needing a partner. It is a little convoluted, but it does create a nice web of interactions that explains why all this is happening as it is right now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie and Carver handle a persistent smuggler; Gamlen's lie is exposed and Sidonie and Carver get into another argument; Sidonie learns about her father's escape from the Gallows; Sebastian Vael decides to do something about his family's murder; Sidonie manipulates Meeran to turn a coin and prove a point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence, mentions of sex work, sexual harassment (all mild), self-blame
> 
> Comments always welcome :)  
> A gift, because the internet and my schedule decided to be generous today. Enjoy! ~HR

“What do you want, Athenril?” The woman gave her a smirk and then circled around them in the grey morning light, barely making a sound on the flagstone. 

“I didn’t realize Meeran was in the business of breaking and entering Hightown estates,” she said. 

“And who says we’re here on Meeran’s say-so?” Carver said angrily, reaching for the sword at his back. He did not get the chance to draw it, and that was for the best. Athenril slid one of her knives from her belt and gave it a flourish.

“If you want a fight in front of the Viscount’s Keep, you’re welcome to it,” she said simply, “but your guardsman friend isn’t here to help you now when a patrol comes running, and you may be good, but I’m better. You can’t beat me without magic, Hawke.” Sidonie grimaced, because that was true, and they were right at the foot of the Keep steps beside the vine-covered arbor in the square. Even starting something was a risk this close to the barracks. So instead she crossed her arms.

“So we’re back to the original question.” she said simply. “What do you want?” 

“You know, Hawke,” Athenril said, slipping her knife back into its sheath and flashing her a thin smile. “It’s been tight since that job of yours. Since you stormed off, we don’t have anyone who can quite...work your magic, if you know what I mean.” Sidonie’s eyes narrowed and Athenril raised her chin, doing a little turn about the courtyard before them like a prowling cat. “I’ve had a...lucrative opportunity brought to my attention.”

“We will not,” Carver said darkly, “smuggle lyrium again. You know the risks involved with that.” Athenril waved his concerns away and fixed Sidonie with her flat, cold stare.

“The contact is a dwarf called Anso. He has...misplaced some of his product. That’s what happens when you hire the wrong people: they turn around and betray you first chance they get. We’re going to show him how real professionals get things done in this town.” 

“I’m not a smuggler, Athenril,” Sidonie said in a low hiss. “If you want this deal so badly, do it yourself. We’re Red Iron.”

“The way I hear it,” Athenril said simply, reaching to pluck one of the leaves from the vines creeping up the side of the house, “you’re not much of either.” Her eyes flickered up to Sidonie’s again. “You tried to get hired on to that Deep Roads Expedition, and you’ve been running errands for guardsmen, and it makes people nervous to see a mercenary cut and go rogue, Hawke. You should know that.” She crossed her arms, flipping the leave between her fingers. “You know as well as I what happens when people start getting scared of mages in this town. Your little open secret is going to burst some day. I’d hate for it to happen soon.”

“Don’t you dare threaten my sister,” Carver said in a furious tone. Sidonie just put out a hand to quiet him, then gritted her teeth. 

“So the job then?” she said frankly. Athenril smiled.

“Meet with Anso in Lowtown this evening. He was supposed to be doing an exchange, but the men he hired have holed up somewhere with the goods and aren’t willing to part with them. He’s been watching their hideout and can point you the right way. Your job is to go and...liberate the goods, and in return, we get half a cut of the spoils to fence. They’re hot on the market now, and we have the contacts to sell them off at twice the going rate if we get our hands on them.” She gave a little shrug, flicking the leaf from her fingers and letting it flutter to the flagstones. “I’m willing to see you get your fair share, of course. I’m not unreasonable.”

“And if I say no?” Sidonie said in a quiet voice. Something dangerous flashed in Athenril’s eyes.

“Did you know,” she said after a moment, “there’s a new Knight-Captain in Kirkwall? He’s so very eager to see his job done properly.” Her voice was like ice. She gave a false smile at them. “Watch your back, Hawke. There are plenty of apostates in this town I could go to instead. And I only need one.” Sidonie shook her head, sneering to match Athenril. 

“But none of them are me,” she said flatly. “Where in Lowtown am I supposed to find this Anso?” 

“Somewhere near the Hanged Man.” Athenril turned away then, glancing to them over her shoulder. “Tonight or not at all. I’ll expect delivery of the goods before dawn to the usual location.” And then she sauntered off around the corner. Sidonie grimaced, glanced to Carver who looked furious, and sighed.

“Well, another late night then,” she said quietly. Carver gave her a dark stare.

“Why do you have a usual location?!” he demanded. “We don’t need more reasons for the Templars to look at us! If Mother knew - !”

“Don’t you dare tell her,” Sidonie said. “Athenril has power over _me_ , not anyone else. You don’t have to come. I’ll go myself.” 

“Maker’s breath,” he sighed. “I can’t let you go deal with an entire smuggling band alone!” Sidonie grimaced, then motioned for him to follow her. 

“Come on, let’s just go before a patrol sees us lurking.” 

They slipped back through the streets, sticking to the deep shadows of the Tevinter buildings. Hightown bore the usual Kirkwall grime on its face, but the stone seemed to glow a brilliant white in the morning light, so much so it was blinding, and for awhile it seemed less filthy and more grand. But Kirkwall was at its heart grimy, even the upper echelons of society wallowing in its filth. The shadows revealed greying marble and yellowing stone. 

By the time they reached the Lowtown Bazaar, merchants had begun setting up their stalls for the day. Sidonie used a little of the coin from the estate vault to buy them both fresh bread from outside Lirene’s. The money spent in her shop went towards helping refugees trapped in darktown or worse, so Sidonie gave a little extra to the cause while they could afford it. They ate as they walked, their first hot meal since Aveline had bought them skewers the day before, and relished the chance.

Sidonie was not expecting to find Mother or Uncle Gamlen awake when she returned home, but the household was up, and once again fighting, a continuation of the argument from earlier. She knew why as well. Uncle Gamlen stank of piss-poor ale, like he had only just wandered in, and with an empty household there was no way Mother would have been able to rest easy overnight.

Uncle Gamlen, eyes red-rimmed and weary, was staring at them all with irritation as they entered.

“So, I’m just saying,” he said curtly, “blood’s blood and all, but you _are_ taking advantage of my hospitality.” Mother was glaring at him from across the chamber, eyes holding the cold anger Sidonie saw so often in Carver. “It’s only fair,” Gamlen continued, eyes flickering to Sidonie and Carver at the door a moment, “if you make something of a monthly contribution.” 

“You sold my children into servitude!” Mother spat. “Now you’re asking me to pay rent?!” Sidonie glared, crossing to mother and fishing the documents from the vault out of her pouch. 

“Err, maybe just...put something towards food?” Gamlen muttered, and Sidonie gave him a flat look.

“ _We_ pay for the food!” Carver protested. Sidonie pressed the Will into her Mother’s hands, staring Uncle Gamlen down. 

“You should be paying us, Uncle,” she said flatly. “We found the Will.” Uncle Gamlen looked away, and he could not look back. Mother’s eyes narrowed, and she glanced down at the papers in her hands.

“Grandfather left everything to Mother and us,” Carver said quietly, pinning Uncle Gamlen with words. “I guess he had some sense after all.” Mother’s eyes skimmed the page, and she read aloud.

“ _To my daughter Leandra, and all children born of her, the estate in Hightown and all associated revenues._ ” Sidonie gave a bitter smirk.

“Check out the part where Gamlen is left only a stipend, to be controlled by you,” she suggested. Mother’s face grew disappointed. She looked up to her brother, her lips parting.

“Oh, Gamlen, how could you?” His expression went hard, a cornered dog getting ready to fight, and he drew an angry breath.

“You’re the one who ran away, Leandra,” he spat. “What happened to ‘love is so much more important than money’?!”

“It is!” Mother said archly, but Gamlen was in the thick of it, clawing for a way to control the situation again.

“You didn’t even come home for the funeral!” he accused.

“The twins were a week old!” Mother shot back. 

“We all have our burdens,” Uncle Gamlen said bitterly. “Mine was looking after a life you abandoned. How long was I supposed to wait?” Sidonie sniffed, crossing her arms.

“I doubt you let the ashes get cold,” she muttered. Gamlen wheeled on her, and for the first time she had seen, he looked genuinely angry, genuinely anything. The hurt in his eyes…

“I took care of Father, I stayed! And on his deathbed, all he could talk about was Leandra.” That stung. Sidonie considered him quietly. “Look,” he added, turning back, “Sister, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it, but I did. And there’s nothing I can do to get it back.” Mother pursed her lips a moment.

“I don’t expect that, Gamlen,” she finally said. “It’s enough to know Mother and Father didn’t die angry.” She looked away, towards the wall, thinking it through. “I’ll petition the Viscount for the rights to reclaim the estate. Maker willing, you’ll have your _house_ back within weeks.” Gamlen just looked up, shaking his head.

“You don’t have the coin or standing to even get an audience with the Viscount. You’ve got to _be_ someone in this city to live in that house again.”

 _Or be a slaver,_ Sidonie thought darkly. Mother simply fixed Uncle Gamlen with a fierce look.

“Then I had better get started,” she said, and crossed to the chair where her shawl was draped over the back. She gathered it up about her, gave Gamlen a final glanced, then slipped out like she were on her way to the Viscount’s Keep right that very moment. Gamlen watched her go, then glared at Carver and Sidonie before turning away, stalking into his rooms and slamming the door shut behind him. Sidonie sighed, then glanced to Carver.

“Well then,” she said simply. “Hello, _Lord_ Carver.” He just gave her a dark look.

“We’re still a long way from cowing Templars with our titles, Sister.” Sidonie sighed, raising an eyebrow.

“We took a big step with this! You should respect that,” she said curtly, he turned his back, crossing his arms and staring into the empty fireplace where the cold ashes stained the bottom of the metal grate. It made the house smoky when it was lit, so it rarely was anymore, though with the onset of winter they had started needing to light it in the evening to ward off the temperate chill. Or, Gamlen did. Kirkwall winters were nothing to Fereldan snows.

“Right, right, the glorious Amells,” Carver said, shaking his head. “A noble lineage dating to the Third Blight.” Sidonie pursed her lips, feeling a flicker of anger. She let fire flicker across her fingers, sent it dancing. Get the anger out before it could do any harm. “You know what that means,” Carver continued, “Seven hundred years of people sitting around saying wow, look how great we used to be.” He glanced to her. “Mother didn’t even want that life back until we got dumped here. And _you_ only care,” he accused, “because we’re under Templar scrutiny.” Sidonie let the fire flicker out and looked up with angry eyes.

“You hating _everything_ I do is really losing its charm,” she said darkly. 

“Sure, make light,” he told her frankly. “Why take anything seriously? You’re the eldest. You lead by default.” 

“I don’t see you taking the reins,” Sidonie snapped back. He sniffed.

“When should I do that? When I’m following you around, or when I’m caring for Mother while you tame mighty Kirkwall? Besides, we both know what happens when someone leaves dear Sister’s protection. I’m sure Bethany would appreciate that you’re keeping good humor.” It was a low blow. Sidonie took it as such, feeling her breath catch a little, and Carver had a grim look of satisfaction to seeit. His face twisted into a scowl. There was a note of truth in his words, and desperation too. He had avoided looking back until now. Looking back meant Ostagar. Looking back meant Bethany. No, Carver could not look back. But neither could Sidonie.

“We can’t just go back,” she said, giving him a flat look. “Fun’s fun, but you’re taking this little pissing match too far.” A wash of anger settled over him.

“What? You don’t like someone making a joke out of everything you are?” 

“I don’t see the humor in digging up Bethany so you can hide behind her too!” Sidonie shot back, fire flickering again. Carver gave her an angry look.

“I wouldn’t need to if you’d done it right,” he said angrily. _It is all your fault._ “Lothering was our home, not this place. We could have...stood our ground.” His eyes went hard. “You could have stopped that ogre from killing Bethany.” _It is all your fault._

She was quiet a moment, and then she gritted her teeth. The wash of grief pouring from him, the desperation. Poor little Carver, always the odd one out. And it was all Sidonie’s fault. 

He did not even know what he was saying. So she drew herself up and called him on it.

“You’re right.”

He looked up sharply, eyes narrowing. He had been expecting a fight, a way to get his anger out, like she did with her spurts of fire dancing over her fingers. She did not give him that choice. 

“What?!” he demanded. She sighed.

“I’d change all of that, if I could,” she said quietly. “But we don’t have that option, and you know it.” Something in him shifted, the anger to visible grief, and Sidonie turned her back then, shaking her head. “Well,” she said simply, “good talk.” She settled her mind on leaving, going...somewhere. Carver called her back.

“Sister!” She paused, bowing her head a little. “I feel…” The words failed him. He tried again. “I don’t know. It’s like Mother taking everything out on us. She was just scared.” Sidonie glanced back over her shoulder. Carver was looking away, struggling to voice his thoughts. “I don’t have a place in the life she’s trying to bring back.” He looked up, his gaze quiet, a little sheepish. “I’m here if you need me, but I must find my own way.” 

He turned then, disappearing into the back room, and Sidonie closed her eyes a moment, then gritted her teeth. 

She needed to find something, anything, to keep busy. She needed money, though the coin in her pocket was a nice start. And she needed to get out of that house.

So she did. She took the backstreets down towards the docks to think. Sometimes the scent of the fish on the wharf and the creaking sails helped her put things into perspective. She wandered past the compound the Viscount had given to the Qunari, keeping her head down as she went past. No need to draw attention to herself where they were concerned. The Qunari had made no secret of the fact they thought little of the occupants in Kirkwall. Ever since their boat had crashed several weeks back, they had been sitting about the docks waiting for a ride back home. Some people claimed their Arishok himself was among them, their warleader. Sidonie did not think that boded well at all.

She wandered the docks in a bit of a daze, until at last she came to stand at the edge of the pier, gazing out across the narrow channel towards the Gallows beyond. It made her think of her father, peering out at the ancient Tevinter prison, and it was not the first time she found herself wondering about him and about the place itself. She had not gone near it since a year ago when they had first housed refugees there. Again she was thankful that at least Bethany had been spared from the experience. 

It was forboding and large, rising high into the air, filled with more of the bronze statues of suffering slaves and jagged railings that lined the Viscount’s Keep. Everything in Kirkwall was stone and towering, square-edged and prominent. Sidonie stared out across the channel, and grimaced.

She could have ended up in there. She still might, under the iron fist of Knight-Commander Meredith and her ilk. The Templars in Kirkwall seemed to her nothing like the Templars in Lothering had been. They were cold and angry and rigid, following the law of the Chantry to the letter. The Chantry itself was another place she avoided, but that for an entirely different reason. The Chantry had always been a haunt of Bethany’s, and she did not want to reminder of her sister’s soul when she walked into the Maker’s house in Kirkwall. 

Her eyes closed a moment, and she drew a deep breath. Would it not be easier for Mother and for Carver if she went? They could stop hiding, make a life for themselves. Carver could go wherever he wanted. Mother could establish herself with the nobility of Kirkwall again.

She carefully reached for the letters in her pouch, drawing them out and scanning them for the name again: Tobrius. Someone within the Gallows who knew about those letters. Some were written to Mother in Malcolm Hawke’s spidery hand. The others were in a different script, by someone else, that Tobrius perhaps? 

Tobrius was a mage. She knew that much. The content of the letters told her as much. She knew he had been in the Circle at the Gallows as well, since that was where her father had been. 

A strange longing hit her, a sudden need to know, to understand. With her mother chasing leads to reclaim an old name she had forsaken, Sidonie felt herself drawn more and more to Hawke. And if her father had survived the Gallows, she wondered what it might be like to see the place through his eyes.

Whatever it was that gripped her, she could not shake it. So she boarded a small transport vessel, keeping her head down as a few Templars also climbed aboard, and she went back across the channel to the old Tevinter prison where they locked up their mages.

It felt as it had when she first arrived there, oppressive and thick with a tension. A few Tranquil vendors were selling wares across the Gallows courtyard, small stalls of enchanted weapons or runes. Sidonie pretended she was interested only in these and crossed to consider them, glad her mercenary armor gave her some cover. It had been a foolish idea to come.

While she pretended to peruse the wares, she instead snatched glances about the courtyard. Her first time there had been as a refugee locked out of the city. Her second time there had been as a smuggler stealing lyrium. And now she was what? A visitor? Next time she might be a prisoner instead, if she was not killed on sight. 

She carefully caught the attention of a nearby mage.

“I was hoping you might be able to tell me about a mage called Tobrius?” she asked in a quiet voice. The woman met her gaze with concerned and curious eyes, then motioned for her across the courtyard. Sidonie had been expecting Tobrius to be gone, maybe dead. But across the courtyard was an elderly mage in purple robes, watching them with eyes like flint.

She thanked the woman and decided to take her chances.

The elderly man with a dusting of unkempt beard scruff across his face watched her with wry eyes as she approached. She was careful no one was watching as she drew near, settling herself in the shade of a column mostly out of sight.

“I know your face,” he said, considering her. “I am Tobrius. And you are a Hawke.” Sidonie raised her chin a little, eyes fixing on his. He simply smiled. “I remember your father. Malcolm was a good man. I don’t think he would be pleased to find one of his children back in the Gallows.” Sidonie drew a breath, then produced the letters from her pouch, holding them out.

“I came because of these.”

“So Malcolm is gone then,” Tobrius said with a quiet sigh, and Sidonie wet her lips.

“One of these letters was about a friend of his you could not name?” she asked quietly. Tobrius’s lips twitched slightly and he eyed her up.

“Ah, yes, the Templar.” 

“The Templar?” Sidonie narrowed her gaze, glancing back over her shoulder, and then she met his eyes.

“Your father could not write to him directly lest the Order find out,” Tobrius said quietly, eyes scanning the courtyard for her. “He allowed your father to leave Kirkwall. ‘Rule is not served by caging the best of us.’ A wise man.” Sidonie shifted a little, crossing her arms and leaning back against the column. Her staff felt cool against her back, and she was thankful again for the halberd disguise and her mercenary armor. 

“Sounds like he didn’t quite understand the job,” she said, musing over the information. Tobrius gave a soft chuckle.

“Doubt can serve the faithful,” he told her, “even as it vexes them. I fear this has been lost.” She considered him a moment, and he smiled.

“You have not even asked my name,” she said quietly.

“Is it safe to know it?” he asked back. “You are his daughter. You have his eyes, his hair. And his abilities. Keep that staff from the Templars, girl. They may sense the lyrium core.” Sidonie’s lips parted and Tobrius sighed. “I shall go and fetch the rest of the letters I held. It seems fitting they return to family.” Sidonie watched as he moved beyond her and climbed the Gallows steps. She herself sighed, settling into the routine of making herself unnoticeable again. She crossed to the next of the stalls and pored over a collection of enchanted armor she could never in a million years hope to afford. 

Tobrius was only gone a few moments, but those moments gave her more than enough chance to gather information. There were several new recruits in the courtyard, gathered under the blazing sun, engaged in hushed but lively discussion. A few knights loitered as well, and a handful of mages that had been allowed outside. Sidonie considered it all with watchful eyes, waiting for something to go terribly wrong. It had been a mistake and a risk to come. But she had wanted to know.

When Tobrius did return, he made a beeline for her, a small folder of letters in his hand. One of the Templars eyed him suspiciously, but Tobrius appeared to have enough rank to hold sway. He handed her the letters, and Sidonie half expected someone to march over and seize them on the spot. It did not happen, and so Sidonie took them with a quiet nod. 

“Such a friendship,” Tobrius said quietly, “few like your father remain.” He nodded to the pouch then smiled his little wry smile. “Even fewer like the Templar. These letters can do no harm to dead men, Serrah Hawke. Rest well at the Maker’s side, Ser Maurevar Carver.” Sidonie wet her lips, looking up, but Tobrius was already moving away. Sidonie carefully opened the first of the letters, moving back down the Gallows steps, thick in thought. 

She had read them all by the time the ferry arrived to take them back to the Kirkwall docks. This time, only a single Templar made the journey, and she kept well away from him, staring at the papers until at last is sank in all she now knew. 

Carver was named for a Templar. 

***

He was tired. He had got no sleep the night before, and none the day before that. The entire week had been as awful as the rest of the past year had been, except with the added bonus of an estate, Uncle Gamlen and Mother fighting, and the most recent rejection from the guard. All he _wanted_ to do was sleep.

Maker, had he really told Sidonie that Bethany had been all her fault? What a lout.

He turned over on the thin, filthy straw that served as a mattress and stared at the wall.

The door burst open.

“Carver.” He sighed.

“Leave me alone, Sidonie.” Her boots sounded across the floorboards as she crossed to join him.

“No. Get up. I have something to show you.” He groaned, rolled over, threw an arm over his face a moment, and then finally sighed and pushed himself up.

“Do you never sleep?!” he spat, reaching for his sword which was leaning against the table alongside the bed. Sidonie watched him buckle it on, then drew forth a sheaf of papers. 

“Here,” she said, holding them out to him. “I got you something.” He eyed it up suspiciously, thinking at first it was Grandfather’s Will again, until he remembered Mother had taken that with her. 

“Why?” he asked curtly. She sighed, leaning back against the table and kicking her toe against the floorboards like she did when she was trying to get out of something.

“We ended on a...tense note last time,” she finally said, looking up at him with their father’s eyes. The planes of her face made him think of Bethany, so he focused on her eyes. Bethany had had Amell eyes. Sidonie’s were all sharp oxblood Hawke. “Take it as you will,” she said, looking away, bracing her hands on the table. Part of him wanted it to collapse under her. He was still irritable from before. But he sighed and flipped through the documents. 

“These are by Father,” he said when he realized he was looking at letters bearing his father’s signature. Sidonie gave a quiet nod. He looked up. “Are you sure they aren’t meant for you? I bet another mage could get more out of them.” She reached for the papers, flipped them over, and then handed them back, pointing to a specific part. He sighed, dropping his eyes to the paper again, and read.

“ _For your service that cannot be admitted, I ask that you accept this trinket and know that I shall respect your name. Thank you, Conscience of the Order, Ser Maurevar Carver._ ” He looked up sharply. “Carver?” Sidonie nodded, crossing her arms and leaning against the table again.

“The Templar who allowed Father to leave Kirkwall,” she said softly, not looking at him. He felt a wash of confusion. “Your namesake.” 

“A Templar?” He crossed until he was standing before her so she had to look at him. “Have we met a Templar who isn’t a colossal prig?” She smirked a little, then looked away again. 

“Then it suits you,” she said, arching an eyebrow before her smile faded and he saw the painful truth of sincerity in her eyes. “Father must have felt he was worth honoring.” Carver could hardly deny that part. He bore the man’s name after all. He glanced down at the letters, trying to puzzle it out.

Ever since he was young, his father had spent all his time with Bethany and Sidonie, training them to be wary of their magic. He had hardly ever been with Carver, especially when Carver had started getting good enough with a blade to beat him. Malcolm Hawke was no bladesman. 

Carver had always assumed, since he was the one child without magic, he was the disappointment. He knew that Sidonie was Malcolm’s spitting image, and Bethany had always made him smile and laugh. The most he had ever said to Carver, one day when he had come running home to show him what he had learned practicing with the Templars, was, “I’m proud of you,” but the look in his eyes had been one of sadness, not joy. And Carver had never forgotten. 

Now he knew why. He _had_ meant something to Malcolm. Sidonie and Bethany were mages, more of the same for Malcolm, and Malcolm was proud of them for what they could accomplish as mages. But Carver was different. Carver could not cast spells or make the world bend to his will. He had only his strength, and he was so very different from Malcolm in so many ways. But Carver’s name was important, and he was named for the Templar that had given him his freedom. Carver was a promise.

“A man who let him look ahead,” he said softly, “and a name that would always mean ‘skill thoughtfully applied’.” Sidonie was watching him when he looked up again.

“Seems like he thought it held some promise,” she said with a slight smile. There was something of their Father in those oxblood eyes that made the tension in him ease. 

“Not a link back,” Carver said, “but how to go forward. That’s what I was to him.” He lowered the papers, and for a moment awkwardly shuffled his feet until Sidonie looked towards the door.

“I...don’t know what to say,” he told her quietly, “except...thank you.” She smiled slightly, shaking her head.

“You can thank me by coming and helping me get more coin together, or we’ll never get enough to go hunting for dwarven treasure.” A flicker of a smile crossed Carver’s face, and the usual irritation too, and he nodded.

“Alright, Sister. What did you have in mind?” 

“I think we should see about doing the Maker’s work,” she grinned.

***

The Chantry Courtyard was abustle with the Kirkwall nobility and the faithful come to pay respects. Sebastian did not care as he strode out through the great ornate doors of the Chantry and down the steps. His armor still fit, and he needed blood, and that was all that mattered. In the Maker's name, he would see it done.

He could feel the paper in his hand, penned in a moment of anguish and anger. He stalked down the steps towards the Chanter’s Board, blood pounding, mind racing. 

His mother, his father, his brothers, all gone. His family slaughtered in their beds. And somewhere underneath it all a plot. His cousin was claiming the throne now, but that would not last for long. He was the Prince of Starkhaven. It was his by blood and by right. And he would have justice for what had been done. 

He heard the chantry doors slam behind him as the Grand Cleric hurried after him.

“Sebastian!” she called, but he paid no heed. Instead he took the last few steps and slapped the paper with his request onto the cork of the Chanter’s Board, pinning it in place with one of the metal pins left embedded in the surface. 

Elthina drew down the steps. 

“Sebastian, stop this madness!” she insisted, and he turned to glare at her. “The Chantry cannot condone revenge, Sebastian.” He shook his head. 

“It is my right - my _duty_ \- to show these assassins there is nowhere in the Free Marches to hide,” he said angrily. While he had wasted his years in the Chantry cloister at Kirkwall with Elthina, they had lived without him, and now died without him too. He should have been there. He should have saved them. Now was too late for anything but revenge, and the assassins had to learn that one did not just wipe out an entire family without reason.

No, there was someone behind the attack, someone close, and he was not safe either. But neither could he hide away inside the Chantry and pray to the Maker and pretend it had not happened.

The news had come quite suddenly, a rider in the night, saying that the Flint Mercenary Company had massacred the occupants of the palace of Starkhaven, and his cousin seized the throne in his absence. He had already reached out to the Viscount of Kirkwall as Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven, to rally forces to march against his cousin and take his city back. He had been the son no one wanted, but now he was the only one left. 

He turned away, heading for the Viscount’s Keep, and heard the tear of paper as Elthina tore his notice from the board.

“This is murder!” she cried. He turned about, ripping an arrow from his quiver and drawing it back on his bow. And then he fired it straight and true though the paper and into the cork, pinning his notice back in place.

“No,” he said coldly, lowering his bow “What happened to my _family_ was murder.” He tore away, bow in hand. She would not tear it down again, or if she did he did not want to be there to see it.

Damn the Maker for failing him, for refusing to protect his family. Damn the Maker for making _them_ pay for _his_ sins. That was not how it was meant to work. No more. He was done wasting his time in a cloister. It was time to see justice done.

***

If nothing else, Sidonie decided, she could always hunt down mercenaries. She considered the paper the elderly cleric and decided to leave posted to the cork Chanter’s Board, mulling over the details. Flint Company was not well known in the area. Their primary work was Starkhaven, and the Red Iron was particularly known in Kirkwall which meant that Flint Company and its ilk tended to be driven from Kirkwall territories. Either the poster had no knowledge of that fact, or else the Flint Company was encroaching on Red Iron territories because they had a very profitable job, and if the poster’s family really had been murdered, Sidonie was willing to lean towards the second. And that meant she finally had a reason to go near Meeran. 

That was why she found herself in the Blooming Rose that afternoon, her little brother at her side, awkwardly weaving through patrons that stank of ale and sex and heavy perfumes from the workers there. Meeran was known to frequent the brothel, but thus far Sidonie had managed to give the place a wide berth, and she was even more convinced she should have continued to do so when they encountered Uncle Gamlen at the bar. He gave them a sheepish look when they confronted him, said, “I won’t tell your Mother if you won’t,” as if they were there to partake, and then slipped off through the door in a sulk for being caught. 

Meeran was in a back room with a few of the Red Iron when they finally found him, schmoozing with a pair of prostitutes over cheap Antivan brandy. When he saw her, he gave a snide grin, nudging one of the whores from his lap and beckoning to her.

“So Sidonie and Carver Hawke have finally decided to grace us with their presence,” he roared to the others. “Come, sit on my knee, girl, and maybe I’ll have a job for you.”

“As lovely as that sounds,” Sidonie said before Carver could reply, “I’m here on actual business.”

“I told you,” Meeran said, hardening. “I don’t have any work for you. And your time is almost up.”

“I have work for you, actually.” That piqued his interest if nothing else, so he leaned forwards in his chair, sharp little eyes narrowing as he peered at them through thin lashes. Sidonie crossed her arms, and the prostitutes took their cue to flee the room, slamming the door shut in their wake.

“So,” Meeran said, eyes sliding between Carver and Sidonie a moment, “what sorry bird-shit needs killing now.” Sidonie gave him a smirk.

“Flint,” she said simply. “Playing in our garden.” Meeran rose, crossing his arms.

“Certain on this?” he asked simply, all business suddenly, like it used to be before he got pushy. Sidonie raised her chin.

“Certain.” Meeran cracked a smile.

“Then, Sweetheart, sounds like we’ve got business tonight.” He eyed up Carver. “I’m not paying for the information.”

“Wouldn’t expect it, Stingy Old Goat,” Sidonie said simply. “Red Iron looks out for its own.” And suddenly they were back in the group, set and steady, welcomed into the fold again for the rest of their time. She said nothing to Meeran of the Chanter’s Board or the contract on Flint Company lives. Meeran did not need a reason to keep his territory clear. She did not feel even a little sorry for keeping them out of the loop. Meeran had exploited their work for the past year. This one, this time, would be for them, for her and Carver. This time the money was theirs, and Meeran would never be the wiser.

“So where do we move?” Meeran said simply. Sidonie grinned.

“Three groups, three locations,” she said simply, and set about giving him the details. “The docks, the coast, and Sundermount Pass.” 

“Watching the roads, for shipments or the like. Smuggling, maybe,” Meeran mused. “Coterie won’t be pleased with that.” He grinned his wolfish grin, and paced about his men, including Sidonie and Carver. “Better put a stop to it sooner rather than later. Good work, Hawke.” He meant them both, but his eyes were on Sidonie when he said it. “Be ready to move tomorrow morning, first light when they aren’t expecting us. We’ll show them what we do to Flint Company here in Kirkwall.” And just like that, it was done.

As they made their way back towards the Lowtown steps with the rest of the Red Iron, safe in ranks, they could hear the sound of people bustling in the Hightown Market. One man in heavily accented Orlesian was deep in an argument with a Fereldan in rags before one of the stalls as they passed. Meeran gave a sneer in response, and Sidonie narrowed her eyes and glanced back. The Red Iron Captain simply gave a grimace, shaking his head.

“Hubert still looking for someone stupid enough to look after his mine in the Bone Pit then?” he laughed. One of the other Red Iron Mercenaries grimaced, shaking his head and muttering something, and Meeran aimed a smack towards is head, his voice going hard. “Get off yourself, the place isn’t cursed, cowards. We lost good coin because of you lot.” Sidonie narrowed her eyes, then glanced towards the Orlesian, Hubert, and the Fereldan he was shouting at. She glanced to Carver.

“It’s cursed?” she asked Meeran.

“No,” the Captain grimaced, glaring at his man. “Not even a little, but these fools - “ He sighed and glanced back, giving a shrug. “I suppose you can do it, what with this tip about Flint and all. There’s your contact.” He waved dismissively towards Hubert, who had aimed a slap at the Fereldan and sent him running. Sidonie narrowed her gaze, then broke from the group, ignoring Meeran’s jeer as she crossed towards the man. She could not turn down jobs, and Meeran knew it.

She saw Carver’s shadow fall across hers and felt a little relief. He at least was with her. 

Hubert had a look like he permanently had shit under his nose. Sidonie could feel Meeran watching them from nearby, amused at her attempt all the same, but forced him from her thoughts, crossing to put herself in front of Hubert with a dark glare.

“I hear,” she said firmly to get his attention, “you’re having problems with the Bone Pit. We can help.” Carver, beside her, shifted his weight imposingly. Hubert considered them with heavily lidded eyes, scanning their mercenary gear with judging eyes. Then he caught sight of Meeran and the rest of the Red Iron waiting for them across the Hightown Market.

“Finally someone comes to help me,” he said, stroking his goatee with one hand in an airy manner only Orlesians could pull off. “You look a bit unseasoned, but I hope you’ll do.” Sidonie pursed her lips, forcing herself to calm. She could not turn to flickering flames across her fingers to diffuse her irritation, so she simply drew a deep breath through her nose. “I had to suspend operations,” Hubert continued. “My workers are lost in the mines or have run off.” He waved a hand in the direction the ragged Fereldan had fled. “Serves me right for hiring Fereldan refugees. I sent others before, but no word. Perhaps they are putting me off. I need someone competent to figure out whats going on,” he muttered.

“You hire a lot of Fereldans?” Sidonie asked pointedly. Hubert scoffed. 

“Of course,” Carver sniffed. “Who else would be pathetic enough?”

“ _All_ of them,” Hubert said flatly. “An unruly lot, to be sure.” Sidonie shook her head.

“Mind what you say about my countrymen,” she said grimly. Hubert’s eyes flashed as he considered her.

“I was not referring to _you_ , of course,” he said sharply. “My workers are a particularly desperate sort. They’re lucky to work for me! Few in Kirkwall will hire refugees.” They knew the truth of that, but it still stung. There had been enough anger at Orlesians in Ferelden than any refugee working for Hubert had swallowed a lot of pride just to survive. And it made Sidonie determined.

“With an attitude like that, why hire them at all?” Carver snapped.

“Because no one in Kirkwall is stupid enough to work in the mines.” Sidonie snorted.

“Your first mistake was naming your mine the Bone Pit,” she said frankly, ignoring Meeran and his fellows laughing behind her. Hubert held up his hands.

“The locals named the mine. Those fools say it’s cursed. That’s why I hire Fereldans. They might be dull-witted but they’re not superstitious.” Sidonie glanced sidelong at Carver who glared back.

“Surely then,” he muttered, “the miners had good reason to leave.” Hubert looked confused.

“I am at a loss,” he admitted. “No miner has reported in, and no one will take me seriously. Trying to hire new workers is useless.” He glanced the direction the ragged Fereldan had run.

“Well, the Bone Pit must be dangerous if people are afraid to venture there,” Sidonie said frankly, crossing her arms.

“The Bone Pit is mostly harmless,” Hubert said dismissively, and Sidonie raised an eyebrow. But she thought again of the ragged refugee. It could have been her. It could have been Carver. They were very lucky it was not. Those Fereldans had no other choice, and she knew it.

But she could not just help people out of obligation. She could not afford to.

She sighed.

“What’s the reward?” she said frankly. Carver gave her a dark look, but said nothing, turning his cool gaze on Hubert instead and crossing his beefy arms across his chest to look more imposing. Hubert eyed him up, then grimaced.

“I will pay handsomely,” he said with hesitation growing in strength and boldness as the words spilled out. He drew himself up. “The exact amount depends on the dangers you face.” Sidonie grimaced, hearing the Red Iron members growing restless behind her, and then finally shrugged.

“Fine. We’ll handle it.”

“The sooner the better. Each day that mine is not running costs me more than those miners make in a year,” Hubert said grimly, then waved them off. “Your friends are driving away customers.” Sidonie glanced back at Meeran and his fellows, then sighed.

“Come on,” Carver said, motioning with his chin towards the steps, “before he decides to be an ass again.” Sidonie gave a mirthless smirk and then gave Hubert a mercenary nod before stalking off after Carver towards the Lowtown steps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES:
> 
> ON ATHENRIL AND ANSO  
> A little different here from the canon, though in the game either Meeran or Athenril does in fact serve as the contact directing Hawke towards Anso. Athenril, we must remember, is holding Sidonie's mage status over her head and thereby blackmailing her into work. Meeran, of course, is a lout, and therefore unlikely to drop this particular hint for them since he's currently denying them work. 
> 
> SIDONIE AND CARVER'S FIGHT DIALOGUE  
> Technically this is all canon, just from several different dialogue streams (snarky and angry mostly). There are a few lines added in to give it better flow, but these actually ARE things they honestly will say to one another in choosing the right options. I do often tend to cross dialogues to get a more authentic relationship between characters when possible while trying to stay faithful to Bioware's original storyline and interaction, so hopefully that's still alright with everyone. I think it adds to the dynamic between them. Sidonie is not all angry all the time, all humorous all the time, or all nice all the time (rarely the third ;), honestly) so this is the sort of thing that gives her and her interactions with others some multi-dimensionality.
> 
> ON SEBASTIAN AND FLINT MERCENARY COMPANY  
> Sebastian is a Brother of the Chantry, also Prince of Starkhaven, for those that never got the DLC Exiled Prince. We'll touch on his story as Dances progresses. Flint Mercenary Company was hired to murder the royal family, and presumably is hunting him as well in Kirkwall. The Free Marches does have somewhat of a history with mercenary companies (the Red Iron is known to Marchers. Amadis Vael was once the leader of a war band called the Ruby Drakes.) While the territoriality is never explicitly stated, it can be assumed there are areas in which mercenary companies are stronger in the Free Marches. I imagine Meeran has a pretty firm grip around Kirkwall, as he's got Coterie contacts (the Coterie runs the Pearl for instance and he's a regular customer), as well as a reputation among a lot of Free Marchers. Sidonie and Carver are still Red Iron, and we'll see how that plays in to some storylines later.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie, Carver, and Varric go to meet Athenril's contact and quickly find themselves in a lot more trouble than they bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence, gore, slavery
> 
> Comments always welcome! :)

With Meeran set about making the arrangements for dealing with the Red Iron, and Sidonie and Carver booked for that evening to keep Athenril at bay, there was little else for it but to catch a few winks of sleep. Mother was home after having spent the evening attempting to meet the Viscount with little luck, and agreed to wake them at dusk, though she was suspicious when they would not tell her why. It was enough they said it was Red Iron business and left it then at that.

They got enough sleep to feel less fatigued, but not enough to feel properly rested. Sidonie was suffering in particular. She had spent the evening thick in the Fade with spirits and demons pressing in. Even mages had to sleep, but none of her usual tried and true methods of finding a bit of peace and quiet was working. Antsy, she let flames flicker over her fingers as she watched Carver sorting through their minimal supplies to be on the safe side. As they waited for the night to properly settle, he gave her a dubious look.

“You’re sure?” she said, making sure he really did want to come with her. He just gave a sneer. 

“No choice,” he muttered. And that was the best they could manage.

They let themselves out, weaving through the last of the market rabble towards the Lowtown Bazaar where Athenril had told them they would meet Anso. They meandered up towards the Hanged Man, which was ringing with laughter, the sound of dice, and people drunkenly singing. Outside, leaning against the filthy sandstone wall, was Varric Tethras.

He pushed away as he approached them, shooting them a guilty grin.

“My birds told me you were about something interesting this evening,” he declared, his crossbow on his shoulder. He patted the intimidating machine. “Bianca and I thought you might like a hand.” Sidonie was about to decline the offer - no need to get other people involved in her business - but then remembered that Varric knew about her magic too and was determined to keep her out of the Gallows. Every extra set of hands was a help, so she sighed and gave a nod.

“Drinks later?” she said with a grin.

“Only if you’re paying,” Varric laughed.

By the time they reached their meeting place, the stars were glinting through the smoky sky, smoke belching from the Kirkwall foundries and blotting out the shimmering blue ribbon of the sky. Some of the constellations - Sidonie could not begin to tell which were which - winked above them already, the Early Risers her father had always called them when she was a little girl. Here, now, they looked tired and oily through the foundry clouds, and they glinted oddly in the veiled light. 

Anso was a shifty looking dwarf who appeared far too nervous for his line of work. He jumped at their approach, muttering some curse to the ‘sweet mother of Partha’ (whoever that was), and Sidonie raised an eyebrow before Varric assured them they were there to provide assistance. At first, the nervous dwarf was unwilling to be forthcoming with the information for the job, especially since Lady had taken a liking to him and was determined to get a good sniff of him. But at last he settled on speaking to Sidonie and Varric while peering warily at Carver.

“My apologies, humans, I...haven’t been on the surface very long,” his eyes strayed towards the smoky sky and oil-slick stars, “and I keep thinking I’ll fall up into that sky any minute.” Varric gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

“Bartrand used to be like that,” he said with a grin, glancing up at Sidonie. “Got jumpy everytime he stepped outside.” 

“I...digress,” Anso said as Sidonie gave him an amused look. She had never really considered what it must be like for a dwarf who had lived forever under the earth to suddenly be on top of the earth under the stars before. “Some...product of mine has been misplaced.”

“So our contact said,” Sidonie replied breezily, crossing her arms. Anso nodded, looking past them shiftily.

“The men who were supposed to deliver it decided not to,” he told them, and that matched with the story Athenril gave, so Sidonie decided to trust the information. “They seemed,” Anso continued, “like perfectly reasonable smugglers. They smiled and everything.” Sidonie gave him her prettiest smile in response and he gave her an uncomfortable look. “The goods _are_ valuable,” he assured her, rocking from one foot to the other. “And...illegal. And my client wants them very...very badly. You know how these Templars can be.” 

“Maker’s breath,” Varric hissed. “Between the Chantry, the Carta, and the Coterie?”

“Shush!” Anso said hurriedly, looking nervous again. Clearly this operation was as down and silent as they came. Sidonie grimaced. She felt Carver shift at her shoulder and glanced to him a moment, but he just gave her a flat stare back. She already knew what _he_ thought of all this. “By the Paragons, not so loudly!” Anso insisted. “My word, I’m not cut out for this.” No. He definitely was not. Sidonie pursed her lips and wondered how exactly the foolish dwarf had managed to get this far, or even get involved in the first place. His business partners must be fools indeed, unless the man owned his own lyrium mine free of a Carta presence - and that seemed unlikely.

“Make it worth my time,” Sidonie said simply, “and I’ll help you.” Better if Anso did not learn that she was doing the work at Athenril’s bidding. “We take a cut of the goods for our contact and ourselves, or we walk.” Anso shifted nervously.

“I...I...fine,” Anso muttered, still looking uncomfortable. Clearly either lying or entirely out of his element. Sidonie did not know which, to be honest. Perhaps it was both.

“Tell me what you know,” she said then.

“The gentlemen conduct their business in a little hovel in the Alienage,” he told them. “If you have to kill them, then I guess it can’t be avoided, but I’m sure they’ll be reasonable.” Sidonie really rather doubted it. She had yet to meet a reasonable person in Kirkwall to date.

Varric shot her another grin as they left Anso to his business and turned back towards the steps leading to the Old City and the slums and alienage. 

_At least we’ll be close to home for the night,_ Sidonie thought with a fleck of amusement and decided to hold on to the cheer. She had to smuggle lyrium to Hightown yet, after all. She needed all the cheer she could get.

***

There was an uncomfortable stillness to the air. Kirkwall was always on the edge of its seat, even in the darkness, he was quickly learning. The scent of refuse hung in the air around the lowtown slums, thick in the humidity and smoke from the foundries on the other side of Lowtown. 

Kirkwall was the back-end of the Free Marches. It had none of the pomposity of Starkhaven, none of the grandeur of Wycombe or Ostwick. It hugged the cliffs like a stalking beast, peering down over the ships of the Waking Sea that dared trespass into its waters, a hulking form of stark sandstone and marble towers erected in honor of Tevinter. 

He hated it. But then, he hated many things, and this might be the chance he had been waiting for. 

He had been running from this band for weeks, and they had proven persistent. Somehow or other, they always seemed to find him, even when he was careful, and he knew well enough how to be careful now. He had stopped wondering how they tracked him down. Instead he had become better at seeing them dead when they caught him. He had picked off a few of their number outside Ansburg, and another three along the coast. He had found and disposed of another of them the night before.

And now they had set a trap for him. He knew it was a trap. There was no doubt it could be. The real question was if the bait there to lure him was real.

He would not walk into it himself. But that did not mean he did not want to know. What money he had saved in Ansburg, carefully liberated from the bodies of the men sent to track him, he was willing to spend in the squalor of Kirkwall, where every man, woman, and child seemed the sort to sell their own mother for a bit of gold. Free Marcher coin was filthy, as bloody as any he had ever seen. 

He had bought himself some hired help. 

He leaned back against the filthy wall, his black coat over his chestplate ruffling in a quiet breeze that seemed more likely to push more smoke and stench into Lowtown than give him a breath of fresh air. At his back, the riotous laughter from within the local tavern gave him the cover of sound, even if muted through thick Kirkwall doors. The sign creaked above in the breeze, and drunken workers staggered across the square on their way home, late returning from their shifts. A few of the lower end whores called to him from their corners, offering handsome smiles and crude services that made him frown and blush and feel unsettled. 

He was about business tonight.

The man he had chosen was a coward. That was ideal. Cowards could be dealt with, cowards were afraid, and cowards did not ask questions when the time came to know the details. Cowards would lie and cheat to live, and they were good at finding anonymous people to do their work for them. His coward was a dwarf called Anso, who seemed nervous and new enough to the surface that he may never have even seen an elf before, unless the smuggler woman he had immediately gone looking for counted, and he was not honestly sure she did. Athenril, the woman was called, was more drake than elf, scaly, prickly, and liable to bite.

But he had men now. And if they died, it could never be traced to him. 

He had watched them go, a pair of mercenaries in one of the Marcher uniforms, their hound, and another dwarven archer to attend. They seemed capable enough. It fascinated him how the stews of the low places mingled and mixed into one reeking pot of chaos and madness. Smugglers and mercenaries and cowards together in a city of slavers, cutthroats and thieves. 

He had learned the information about the trap himself, left where he could find it of course: a safehouse deep in the Alienage where elves should be able to slip by unnoticed, and a box that contained what could only be the documents that could legally free him from his bondage and make clear the cruel magics that were marred upon his skin. Danarius had set that trap well. If those documents were there, they were his key to freedom forever, protection in all cities and states outside Tevinter. And while it seemed unlikely Danarius would give such documents to the slavers sent to bring him back, he was well aware that even slavers needed documents to pass borders. Those papers were proof he was missing property. Those papers were Danarius’s legitimacy in ink, which would allow them to capture him and take him back to Tevinter mostly unhindered. 

But if they were destroyed...if they could end up in his hands…

It was a long hope, but one worth trying. For weeks he had been running from this band. Without the documents to claim him, they would have to give up, and weeks had been a long time. 

He turned his head to look down along the small street at the clatter of armored feet, then gritted his teeth and sank back further into the shadows. His clothes were non-descript enough, black or armor grey, but his hair was a stark white, too easy to see even in darkness. He waited until the sound passed, several troops marching towards the Alienage, and then watched their retreating backs a moment. 

Three and a dog against so many. But he needed those papers. 

He felt the lyrium flood through his flesh, a deep song echo through his mind, a hum maybe, or something more, and then reached for his sword.

***

The Alienage made her feel oddly small in a way the rest of Kirkwall did not, even with its towering and oppressive marble and sandstone structures. Great twisting awnings billowed in the breeze overhead, splashes of burnt umber and scarlet that made her think of fire that might provide some shelter from the heat in the sun. To be honest, she had never had cause to visit the Alienage before. It was very much for the elves alone, despite being only up the lane from Uncle Gamlen’s piss-poor apartment. It had its own market stalls, its own view of the squalid parts of the docks down further below, and its own culture. In the center, the twisting Venedhal tree was splattered with crude red and white paint, and grafitti’ed Kirkwall dragons stood like etchings on the sandstone from the slave rebellions long ago, faded to pinks and blacks with age.

She took the steps carefully, but there was no one in sight. Her eyes narrowed. Even in the dead of evening, Lowtown had some activity - stray cats, errant drunks, beggars settling into homelessness amidst packed crates of straw and shipped goods, the rats that came to feed. The Alienage was empty even that. 

“It’s a little quiet here tonight,” Varric said quietly, his voice as wary as she felt. “Too quiet.” He followed her down the steps, seeing her eyes scanning the clutter. “The elves who don’t live here have it worse. They live in Darktown,” he added for her benefit. She sighed. No one should live in Darktown. He motioned across the square to a small row of stacked hovels built of crumbling sandstone. “There’s the place.” Sidonie followed his pointing finger and shook her head.

“I don’t like this,” she said, but strode forward. The entire thing reeked of trap. These smugglers were not there sitting on a hoard of lyrium being stupid. They were waiting, luring them in. She did not dare look back at Carver. They needed the money, and Athenril’s threat hung over her. There was no choice. So she crossed to the hovel, her boots quiet on the sandstone Alienage courtyard, and reached for her staff.

Within, there was a hive of activity. A number of smugglers in leather armor were waiting, sitting on rubble with swords drawn or lounging against walls. Varric gave a low hiss. Carver’s frustration was more vocal. Sidonie reached for fire. In a sandstone chamber, she could do some real damage, and there was no way to escape that room until all the smugglers were dead.

The heat of it burned across her fingertips, itching to escape, and she held up her hand to let it fly, forsaking the lyrium core within her staff and using her own force to call it from the air. A ball of it burst forth, erupted into the first group in the corner, which she immediately slammed down with a bit of well-placed force. She felt the Veil bend about her and surrendered to the sensation of magic blurring through her.

Force magic was none of the manipulative magic one found in schools like creation and entropy where spirits were called to interact with the world through the Veil. Even destruction schools like fire or ice relied on the influence of spirits and the materialization of imagined power on this side of the Veil. Force was the twisting of the Veil itself, moving and flexing, twisting, snapping, wrenching. Force mages could do a great deal of damage to weak Veils, but Sidonie was good at it, knew what she was doing. 

She felt the life leave the smuggler and released the constructing twist, then focused on a whiplash that would drive those nearing her back. It left a few of them dazed, knocked a few from their feet, the impact of the Veil slamming into them physically a strange sensation most had never really felt before. She finished them off with more superheated flame, reaching for spirits of valor and passion to call down more.

Carver came from nowhere, slamming through the smuggler’s leader and then whirling about, greatsword swinging like it were nothing, to strike an oncoming rogue with the pommel before running him through. 

Varric peppered the rest with arrows, Bianca creaking as he wound the winch for each shot, took aim, and sent bolts through the hearts of the remaining few.

“So much for them being reasonable,” Varric muttered when they were dead, settling Bianca at his back again on her strap. “Let’s just find the stash and go.” 

The hovel itself was smaller than Uncle Gamlen’s apartment, but not by much. They did a quick search of the rooms, turning up nothing more than a couple barrels of rotting salted fish and a waterskin one of the smugglers had abandoned. And then they found the chest. Sidonie grimaced and then knelt to throw it open before giving a sigh. 

“Empty,” she muttered angrily, pushing herself up and stalking away, trying to think. Anso had been so sure. 

“Waste of bloody time,” Varric spat, literally spitting his contempt onto the floor with a grimace. “Who put us up to this?” 

“I guess we’ve got no choice but to go back to Anso and tell him,” Sidonie muttered, still avoiding looking at Carver. She gave a low whistle and Lady trundled to her side, muzzle bloody again, eyes sharp and bright. “Come on,” she sighed.

But they did not get far. As they emerged from the house into the Alienage courtyard, they learned the real reason the square had been so quiet. Sidonie kicked herself for being so stupid that she had let it go unremarked. She should have known better. It was the sort of trick Meeran would pull. 

She stared about at the soldiers gathered about the hovel door in glinting armor and red cloaks. Their shields were the uncomfortable spikes common to Tevinter, their swords jagged things made to look more intimidating than actually serve a use. A few of them had coiled whips in their hands, a row of archers stood near the Venadahl, and she could feel the crackle of magic rippling across the Veil from somewhere nearby. 

“That’s not the elf,” a woman said, tearing her helmet from her head to reveal a northern style cut of silvery hair and a face worn with age and travel. Her eyes were cold. “Who is that?”

Sidonie fixed her gaze on her warily, twisting her fingers in their leather gloves tighter about her staff. She could not reach for magic until the last second, lest they realize she was a mage before it would be of use, but she readied herself, seeking the apostate among them that would pose the biggest threat. 

“It doesn’t matter,” one of the other’s said in a brittle Tevinter accent, drawing his sword. “We were told to kill whoever enters the house.” Sidonie whipped her staff about, twirling it up, and hammered them back with force magic before calling down a firestorm that sent splattering flames into their midst and set them to screaming. 

“Carver! Mage!” she cried, but somehow he already knew, was already moving. Varric got himself to some higher ground, slamming Bianca’s crossbow bolts through the silver haired woman from atop a stack of crates near the wall. 

She had never faced so many at once, but she was not going to die for a lyrium run sans lyrium in the Kirkwall Alienage, so she focused. Her magic flowed through her, and for a moment she turned her attention away from the demons that gathered at Kirkwall’s Veil, trusting her own internal compass to guide her through that mess and repel any of their attempts to twist her magic to their own purpose. 

She reached for fire, focused on Bianca, on Carver’s sword, until they were wreathed in flame, and cursed herself for having little talent with lightning spells. If she did, she could have hit them all at once in their metal armor.

At least their cloaks caught.   
So did the orange and scarlet awnings above, setting the Alienage aglow with a spiderweb of flames. 

The first of the mage’s spells hit her like a blow. She felt it knock her backward, almost sending her staff flying from her hands. By the grace of the Maker she kept hold of it, forced herself to her knees and sent a volley of flame his way which rebounded from a shield.

Carver broke right through the damn thing, roaring a battlecry that made her own blood run a little hot. The mage, at a loss, met Carver’s steal with a flimsy wooden staff, which predictably splintered at the impact. And then the mage fell, dead, and Carver stepped back, staring, chest rising and falling. 

Sidonie crushed the Veil about a few of the remaining soldiers with a flick of her wrist, worn out from the effort of the fire, before turning her attention to the awnings, which were singed and tattered in places, but still salvageable in others. She banked the magical fires in an instant, grimacing at the damage and grateful it had not reached the tree, but then she had never been known for subtlety.

“You’ll have the Templars down on this place for sure!” Carver spat, staring at her. She just gave him a flat look, then considered the mage. 

“Leave the body,” she said quietly. “There’s the scapegoat.” Carver sniffed, then turned away, stalking towards the steps.

“This was a bad idea,” he said again. She just stared. She had watched him cut through a shield like it was nothing. A creeping chill settled over her.

Varric drew alongside her, nodding towards the steps.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. That’s enough fighting for our lives for the day.” She sighed, then nodded and moved to follow him.

A soldier emerged at the top of the steps.

“I don’t know who you are, _friend_ , but you’ve made a serious mistake coming here,” he said. He had a sharp Tevinter nose and hair that fell greasy across his forehead in a slick black color. Sidonie paused, staff in hand, and shook her head. He raised his chin, voice like gravel, “Lieutenant, I want everyone in the clearing! Now!” 

However many men he expected to be able to intimidate Sidonie, Carver, Varric, and Lady into submission, he got none of them. Instead, a haggard man staggered down the steps from the Old Slums, blood on his chin.

“Captain,” he managed, blood splattering at his feet from a nasty gash through his armor. That was as far as he got. He fell forward, tumbling down the sandstone steps to lie twitching at the bottom. The Captain’s eyes went wide, and he glared up at the steps where an elf in a black coat with the whitest hair Sidonie had ever seen stepped down from the shadows, a vicious Tevinter greatsword in his hand. 

“Your men are dead,” he said, flexing spiked gauntlets about the sword hilt, “and your trap has failed. I suggest running back to your master while you can.” His voice was like velvet, deep and rich and stirring as it touched. Sidonie watched the man descend the steps, lips parted a little, until he put himself between her company and the Captain. His voice was thick of Tevinter too, but harsher, cooler. The Captain glared.

“You’re going nowhere, slave!” he spat, reaching for the elf, who simply turned, fist extended and…

reached into the Captain’s chest. 

Sidonie felt the flare of magic before she saw it, the thick sickening hum of lyrium, and it set her nerves alight. She quivered a little, licked her lips, and took a step back as the glowing subsided, as the elf drew his hand from the Captain’s chest and the man felt dead at her feet, heart crushed within. Sidonie stared at him a moment, then up at the elf, who fixed her with eyes such a deep green they might be eternal forests or the depths of reef-riddled seas. 

“I am not a slave,” he said, a flicker of anger in his tone before he sighed. “I...apologize. When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters, I had no idea they’d be so...numerous.” He looked out across the courtyard, his voice quieter now, his eyes a shade sadder in the darkness. Patterns of lyrium - she could feel it flickering there - traced up his neck, his arms, his chin. Being near him made her a little dizzy. But the power was subdued now, quieted somehow. Sidonie considered him.

“I take it these men were looking for you,” she said. Carver kicked at the body before them with a grunt, putting up his sword. The elf shifted, then glanced back at her.

“Correct. My name is Fenris.” He nodded to the bodies. “These men were imperial bounty hunters seeking to recover a Magister’s lost property: namely, myself.” That hardness again. That anger. He was on the run. “They were trying to lure me into the open. Crude as their methods were, I could not face them alone.” He glanced between them. “Thankfully, Anso chose wisely.” He sounded like he had expected that to be so anyway, but Sidonie had the feeling this elf did not know Anso from the Maker. She pursed her lips. 

“If you couldn’t fight them, why not just run?” she said a little curtly. He raised his chin.

“There comes a time when you stop running,” he told her firmly, velvet voice soothing in a dark way, “when you turn and face the tiger.” She sighed. She wished people would stop insisting _she_ face their tigers. She was more than happy to run away when it was the right thing to do.

“It seems like a lot of effort to find one slave,” Carver muttered. Sidonie glanced to him.

“I’d bet this has something to do with those markings.” She nodded to the lyrium lacing his flesh, and he glanced at it a moment. For the briefest of instants it flared up again, and she felt the wash of lyrium flood her, leave her dizzy. And then, again, it was gone. He smiled ever so slightly, but it was a cold, hard smile, not one of amusement.

“Yes, I imagine I must look strange to you,” he said. Varric muttered something behind her, but Sidonie shook her head. The elf wet his lips. “I did not receive these markings by choice,” he said quietly. “Even so, they have served me well. Without them I would still be a slave.” So there was lyrium involved, Anso had not entirely lied. All the same, Sidonie could hardly take this story to Athenril and tide her wrath over. She felt her heart sink. 

“Well,” she finally said, since she had spent the previous night routing slavers anyway, “if they were really trying to recapture you, I’m glad we helped.” Maybe she could take that to Aveline, get something for the effort. Aveline could spin it into a story, slavers infiltrating Kirkwall. 

She remembered the suspicious ambush and pushed that hope aside.

“I...have met few in my travels who have sought anything more than personal gain,” the elf - Fenris - said, bowing his head a little. _You still haven’t. I’m only saving my own skin,_ she thought. “If I may ask?” She looked up to see his eyes open for once, genuinely wanting, and it struck her to see it. She pursed her lips. “What was in the chest? The one they kept in the house?” She shrugged, shaking her head.

“It was empty,” she told him, and his crestfallen look made her ache a little.

“I suppose it was too much to hope for. Even so, I had to know,” he said simply, bending towards the Captain at his feet.

“What were you expecting?” she asked, drawing a little closer, disregarding Carver’s warning hiss.

“It was bait, nothing more,” Fenris said, loosening the Captain’s belt to yank his purse free and then digging through it for everything within. Coins, which he pocketed, and a piece of paper that he stared at a moment before pursing his lips.

“All that for an empty chest?” Sidonie asked, crouching beside him. He looked to her, holding up the paper, which she read aloud. “An address. And who is Danarius?”

“It’s as I thought. My former master accompanied them to the city.” He pushed himself up, crushing the paper in his metal-coated fingers until it was illegible. “I know you have questions, but I must confront him before he flees.” His eyes watched her through long lashes. “I will need you help,” he admitted. There was a flickering anger in them. She took pause. Angry and out of control, this man could be the end of her. That lyrium had the power to drive her mad unchecked. But then she thought of Athenril again and grimaced.

“Sounds like we should have a talk with this Danarius,” she said quietly. He sniffed, missing her sarcasm.

“Danarius wants to strip the flesh from my bones, and has sent so many hunters that I’ve lost count. And before that, he kept me on a leash like a Qunari mage, a personal pet to mock Qunari custom.” Sidonie paused, feeling his words hit her in the hollow of her stomach. His voice was more venom than velvet now. “So I intend to do more than just talk.” Sidonie shifted a little, but then she drew a breath, glancing back at last to Carver.

“Athenril won’t take no for an answer,” he said quietly, and she sighed.

“We beat the others,” she said in reply. He did not look happy, but again, what choice did they have. She glanced back at Fenris, who was watching their exchanged with guarded eyes. “If it means fighting more slavers, we’ll help you,” she said.

“I will find a way to repay you, I swear it,” the elf said quietly. Sidonie hoped he meant with money, because she had a fistful of favors she would never make use of, and favors would not buy her bread.

***

“How do you always get pulled into these sorts of things?” Varric asked as they climbed the Hightown steps from Lowtown. “One minute you’re doing a simple job, the next you’re next deep in weird work. If I wrote it down, no one would believe it,” he sniffed.

“You should try,” Sidonie laughed, taking the steps two at a time, but she did not feel happy. She felt a bit ill. She was capable as a mage, of course, but against a trained Magister? She was very concerned. And then there was Athenril to deal with. She decided, for her Mother’s sake, to get that done with first. A battle with a mage might bring the Templars down upon her anyway that night.

Fenris disappeared into Hightown then, leaving them to deal with Athenril alone. Carver had been adamant his assistance would be necessary in convincing the smuggler that it was a mistake, but they were strangers, and Fenris a slave of no small amount of worth, and Athenril may not work with slavers yet, but if the price was right, Sidonie had no doubt she’d sell her own mother to turn a coin. She was certainly willing to sell Sidonie to the Templars, and that was a form of slavery in itself. 

So Sidonie went alone in the end, without Fenris, and even without Carver and Varric, who she convinced to wait in case Athenril had brought Templar backup. She did not want anyone else incriminated beside her. She had been forced to appeal to the wellbeing of their mother to convince Carver to stay put, and for a moment she was not certain he would, but finally he had gone with Varric, to wait not far away under the terrace near the estates where they had emerged from the Amell estate the night before. 

Athenril, true to her word, was waiting for her, perched atop a pile of crates in a dim pink lighting of the red lantern district, ankles crossed, bottle of filched wine beside her. 

“Ah, Hawke,” she said in a cool voice as Sidonie at last drew near. “Something tells me you do not come bearing gifts of plenty for your old friend.” 

“Job was not what we thought, Athenril,” Sidonie said, trying to put on her best Red Iron attitude. “Nothing there. A set up. Not sure the details.” Athenril slipped quietly down from ehr seat. Even shorter she somehow felt taller. Sidonie watched as the smuggler circled her with eyes heavy with disdain.

“So, you’ve proven that any apostate really would have done, Hawke,” she said quietly.

“There were no goods. You bring it up with Anso. I’m out. Waste of time,” Sidonie said hurriedly.

“I was told there was an entire shipment.” 

“There was an empty crate. If he had a shipment before, it was sold off before we got there,” Sidonie replied. Athenril narrowed her eyes at me.

“You think you’re funny, Hawke. You think you can pull the wool over everyone’s eyes, but not me. I know how hard it is to fence lyrium in this town on the down-low, and I know there’s very few people who last long in that business. You keep crossing me, and you may be due for early retirement.” Sidonie sniffed, shaking her head.

“I told you, there was nothing there. And if I had it, I would not be begging for work from Meeran, would I?” Athenril sniffed, glancing to the Rose behind them where the red lanterns were glowing merrily behind crude representations of lady-parts on signage.

“Meeran doesn’t give two shits about you, Fereldan,” she hissed.

“Oh no, Athenril, that is where you’re wrong. I’m in good now.” 

“You don’t fool me,” the elf said simply, leaning back, and Sidonie realized she suddenly had some space to breathe. “I bet if I walked in there right now and asked to speak to him, I’d find you still in the same situation, Sidonie. Down in the dirt, like you always have been.” 

“Flowers grow best in dirt,” Sidonie shiffed, turning her head away. She felt the sharp prick of Athenril’s knife at her ribcage and paused, hardly daring to breathe.

“If I find,” Athenril hissed, “that you are playing me false in any way, Hawke, I’ll gut you,” the knife hovered over her ribs, then up to her chin, “from stomach to smart-mouth. Are we clear.”

“Athenril!” Sidonie had never been so relieved to hear Meeran’s twisted old man’s voice in her entire life, and she even suffered his hand falling heavily on her shoulder. “I trust,” Meeran hissed near her ear, eyes on Athenril, “you’re not causing trouble for my Red Iron?” Athenril’s eyes flashed, she drew back, the knife vanished from sight before Sidonie even saw it. And then the elf gave a slick, mirthless smile.

“Only catching up with old friends,” she said simply, eyes sliding over Sidonie. “I will speak with you later, Hawke.” It was not a promise, it was a threat. Hawke shuddered, stepped out of Meeran’s range as she swung around, and gave him a sharp look.

“Keep an eye on her,” she said quietly in warning. “She’s been angry with me ever since we started working for you instead of her to pay of Uncle Gamlen’s debts. She’s dangerous, Captain.” Meeran’s smile slipped, his eyes narrowed.

“Let me know if she keeps giving you trouble,” he said. “And Hawke?” Sidonie glanced back and he met her eyes. “Arrangements are in place. We move on Flint Company two days from now. One of our boys found their rotation schedule. We’re primed to wipe them off the map.” Sidonie gave a steady nod, then watched as he meandered off towards the Rose, his normal haunt, and let out a sigh of relief.

She could not decide if she had the best of luck, or the worst.

She quickled decided it was the worst after meeting up with Carver and Varric again and continuing up through the Chantry. After all, fighting a Magister could not count as good luck to anyone. Not even a Templar on a killing spree. Or another Magister. She heard they were the sort to eat their young. Or something. 

Actually, she had no clue. She knew in Tevinter there were powerful mages that used blood magic and kept slaves, and that they ruled from on high through the Black Divine and the Archon. It had all seemed like a story before, so long ago when she was young, and then in Lothering an entire universe away, despite the Imperial Highway that bisected the town and the ever present reminders of Tevinter lingering as backdrops in her life. 

This Danarius must be powerful though, to be able to hire so many people, send so many to Kirkwall after a single slave, and to not go mad from the lyrium infused with Fenris’s flesh. It worried her.

She climbed the final steps to the posh terraces where all the rich snobs lived - oh and Bartrand, but he did not count - with a quiet and contemplative look. 

Fenris was waiting with his back to a marble pillar, eyes glaring towards the door of a mansion not far off. It seemed run down, abandoned. Sidonie considered it, then Fenris, who finally looked to her.

“No one has left the mansion, but I’ve heard nothing within,” he reported. “Danarius may know we’re here. I wouldn’t put it past him.” He considered the windows, the curtains drawn tightly shut, and Sidonie nodded. But her run in with Athenril and her consequent warning to Meeran had made her more cautious, and she was still trying to steel herself for what was to come. So she stalled.

“I could stand to know a little more about this Danarius,” she said quietly. Fenris considered her.

“He is a Magister of the Tevinter Imperium,” he said unhelpfully. “There is a wealthy mage of great influence. Here, he is but a man who sweats like any other when death comes for him.”

“Oh is that all?” Varric said drily. “Nothing to worry about then.” Sidonie drew a breath, wetting her lips.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” she added, ignoring Carver’s glare.

“I do not fear death,” Fenris said, “but that does not mean we should be reckless.” Carver at least agreed with that, so Sidonie let them to take the lead.

“I’ll...guard your rear,” she offered unhelpfully. Carver had brought down a mage’s barrier in a single swing earlier. She was not about to forget that.

Fenris broke the lock on the door, kicking it open and storming inside, apparently in a non-reckless way, but Sidonie was having a hard time telling the difference. He gave a growl, then called into the empty bowels of the dark house: “Danarius!” 

Sidonie cringed, expecting fire and lightning and the house to maybe rise up and eat them, if they weren’t just immediately thrust into the depths of the Fade to deal with demons. 

The demons was the only one of those things to happen, shadows and shades that swarmed towards them. Sidonie gathered force to hold them back, reached for the aid of purse spirits for fire, but she was, as always, weaker against the denizens of the Fade in the real world.

In the end, Carver was the one who did the most damage, slamming through them and sending them back into the Fade in shreds, Sidonie’s magic serving more to corral them into easier locations for him to do the real damage. Varric stuck close to her, watching her with curiosity. When she saw his look she gave him a breathless shrug.

“Kirkwall has a nasty weak Veil,” she said, like it was an explanation a dwarf of all people could understand, and let it be. She was too tired anyway. She had never needed to use so much magic so frequently over so many days. It was wearing her down quicker than before. She felt dangerously weak in her mana. She focused on holding back the demons instead. 

“More inside,” she told them quietly, reading the room for the more effective fighters and switching her staff to her other hand for a better grip. She needed to start fighting more close quarters now, and use fewer spells.

Danarius had laid his traps across each and every room. Here and there, the bodies of murdered slave hunters were bleeding out onto the jet tiles, sacrificed for wicked magics that had shattered the Veil in the mansion. The ceiling had fallen in in places, moonlight streaming through cracked marble and iron support bars. Sidonie considered it all warily. 

As they moved towards the center of the house through the old kitchens, careful not to slip on tattered tile and worried they might run into demons at any turn, the traps got worse and worse, and so did Sidonie’s sense of imposing darkness. Something had been twisted to purpose in that house, something snared in powerful magic. 

And there was an anger hanging over it all, dark and raging, which made her wonder if those spirits of the slain slavers had not lingered after all. She did not like spirits of rage. She did not do well against them. 

“He sends spirits to do his fighting for him,” Fenris snapped, spitting out the word like it was disgusting. “Danarius, can you hear me! I know you’re in there! Your pets cannot stop us!” 

He was glowing again, so Sidonie kept well back. At times, he almost seemed to shift through the Veil himself, to ghost through the demons and shades that came against them and appear at their weak spots. A mean trick. She wished she had the skill to pull it off, but it seemed to be linked to his markings, not to any conscious use of magic.

As they finally reached the central foyer of the mansion, where the ceiling was open to the smoky, starry sky, Sidonie stopped short, and so - she noticed - did Carver. He sensed it to. She blinked, then narrowed her gaze before pursing her lips.

“There is something here,” she warned Varric and Fenris, the second of which was already on his way up the steps towards the balcony where the bedchambers were. He went right for the one in the middle. “Wait!” Sidonie cried, too late, just by the merest of moments. The door flew open, the room almost crackled with power, and something screamed.

Sidonie had never seen the like before. The Arcane Horror, what happens when a strong demon like Pride possesses the corpse of a mage, rose from nowhere in the middle of the hall. Sidonie was moving before she could think, not because she could do anything really, but because instinct itself forced her to. She took the steps two at a time, raised her staff high, filled it with fire, and swung it hard, the axe head slamming into the floating possessed corpse, which immediately turned on her. And then she reached for force, for fire. 

And it came stronger than anything she had managed before. She realized Fenris’s markings were glowing. His sword raised, and he was at her side, and she swung, fast and hard.

The Arcane Horror died, Pride banished back beyond the Veil, and Sidonie felt a wash of dizziness take her over. She almost collapsed, propping herself up on her staff until Carver was there at her side helping her keep her feet with a very worried look. And then Fenris stalked into the room, gave a Tevinter curse, and sighed.

“Gone,” he finally said, then looked back after a moment of clenching his fist. He sheathed his sword at his back - it was almost as long as he was. “I had hope…” he paused and shook his head. “No. It doesn’t matter any longer.” He considered the chamber, which was prehaps the only room in the house displaying any sign of life. A fire flickered in the the hearth, a lute propped against a bench before it, a desk filled with papers in various tongues. Sidonie took it all in warily from the doorway, then glanced to Fenris. “I assume Danarius left valuables behind,” he offered. “Take them if you wish. I...need some air.” He tore his gaze from her, and Sidonie watched him give her a wide berth before slipping back down the steps towards the door. Sidonie glanced back, feeling a cold chill, but at least the room was relatively sturdy. Maker, she had never felt so weak though. Carver gave her a worried look.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly. She wet her lips, mulling over the answer to that, while he stared her down the way he did when he was too worried to be annoyed. And then Varric negated the necessity of an answer, coming up from rifling through a chest in the corner with a grin.

“Good news,” he said with a grin, holding up some jewelry in ropes of gold on his hands. “A fair price for these if you know where to sell them. Give me a ten percent cut and the rest is yours,” he suggested. Sidonie narrowed her gaze.

“You only want ten?” she asked weakly.

“Look, Hawke, I’m not an idiot. I live in a tavern. I’ll take a fair piece and the rest you can use to feed people. When this expedition turns out, there will be more than enough to go around. Unless you think I’m some sort of greedy money-grabbing - “ She cut him off with a quietly murmured reply.

“Sorry. It’s...been a long day full of shit.” He nodded in the sage way she was quickly learning only Varric could.

“Sure has.” He sighed, glancing to the door. “Will you deal with Broody or should I?” Carver crossed his arms.

“Throwing lyrium around like that..he’s trouble. The sooner we are done here, the better.” Sidonie sighed.

“I’ll deal with him,” she said. But Carver was not about to let her go alone, and Varric pointed out there was only one door anyway, so they may as well load up on gold and see that part of the agreement settled. Sidonie helped him fill a box full of precious silks, jewels, and important looking trade paperwork before leading the way out, her pace decidedly slower now she had run shy of mana and energy. Whatever Fenris had done earlier, she needed a good sleep and a long rest to recover from.

He was standing in the shadows, which seemed to be his favorite thing to do she had gleaned from their short acquaintance, one foot propped against the mansion wall, gazing up at the stars. At the sound of the door opening, he gave a sardonic smirk and shook his head.

“It never ends,” he said softly. Sidonie gave him a tired look until he finally glanced to her. She was entirely relying on Carver now, his strength to help her, and she could tell he was aware of it. He was hovering like her shadow at her back. “I escaped a land of dark magic, only to have it hunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul,” Fenris said grimly, his eyes fixing on her. “And now I find myself in the company of yet another mage.” He pushed himself from the wall. Sidonie knew now how fast he could draw his sword. She would never be able to stop him. She forced herself to stand her ground, staff at her back, as the elf glared her down. “I saw you casting spells inside. I should have realized sooner what you really were,” he said like it were an accusation. Of course he had seen her casting spells though. She had hardly been discrete. Usually she was hired _because_ of those skills, so his words came as a surprise, especially given Athenril’s threat had been the catalyst for the entire encounter. Sidonie squared her shoulders, glaring at him back. He closed the distance between them until they were stood close enough to reach out and touch one another. “Tell me then,” he said, like a wrong answer would be the end. It very well might. “What manner of mage are you? What is it that you seek?” She snorted, looking away.

“I’m just trying to get by,” she replied simply, because Maker, she had never said anything more true in her life. He gave her a quiet look.

“I have seen many crimes done in the name of survival,” he said, and she narrowed her gaze.

“So have I and they were not all done by mages,” she quipped back. If this elf was going to kill her for being a mage, she was certainly not going to let him have the last word too. She need not have bothered. Carver stepped forward, his stance threatening.

“If you have a problem with my sister,” he said angrily, “you have a problem with me.” She glanced to him, a little surprised, but he did not look to her. He was busy staring down Fenris. At some point, Carver had grown a little into that stare over the past year. She forgot sometimes it was the same one he had given her so many times before in his youth. Here it was a mercenary’s threat, and she felt boistered for it. Surprised, she glanced back to Fenris, who just sighed, breaking all eye contact.

“I imagine,” he said after a moment, “I appear ungrateful.” That too surprised her. Just like that the anger was gone. She wondered if her own was so quick to ice over. Probably not. “If so, I apologize, for nothing could be further from the truth.” She nodded slowly. “I...did not find Danarius,” he added, “but I still owe you a debt. Here is all the coin I have, as Anso promised. And should you find yourself in need of assistance, I would gladly render it.” He reached into the pocket of his coat, drawing forth a canvas purse that jingled a little with coins. Sidonie caught it as he tossed it her way, eyeing him up dubiously. 

“You know, we are planning an expedition into the Deep Roads that we could use some help with,” Varric suggested, before Sidonie could say anything either way. “That purse could stand as a down-payment to our investment pool if you’re interesting in earning some more coin?” 

“How many people are you planning to involve in this venture, dwarf?” Carver snapped, but Varric shot him an unassuming grin.

“Come now, Little Hawke,” he said simply. “There will be more than enough to go around, and he’s an escaped slave. He needs all the help he can get. Also, anyone who comes with his own lyrium supply is going to come in handy, just you wait and see.” Carver groaned, throwing up his hands and stalking off towards the Hightown steps to sulk. Sidonie just gave Fenris a quiet look.

“You didn’t seem all that thrilled with me a moment ago,” she said gently. He gave her his serious stare again.

“You are not Danarius,” he said, sounding for a moment like he was the one making sure she knew that. “Whether you are anything like him remains to be seen.” She gave a small nod to herself, then pursed her lips, glancing back at the mansion. The Veil needed some work, certainly, but the place was done with bound demons for the moment. 

“Whoever he is, this Danarius did a number on that mansion and anyone inside. Making the Veil within secure again will take a bit of time and effort. Your old master must want something more than just a runaway slave,” she finally said. 

“He doesn’t want me at all,” Fenris said with a definitive shake of head, “just the markings on my skin. The lyrium was burned in my skin to provide the power that Danarius required of his pet.”

“That...those things you did inside, earlier,” she said, unsure how to even word it. The power really had been immense, and all from him, and exhausting beyond belief. He seemed to understand, even if he did not have an audible question, and gave a small nod.

“All I know,” he told her, “is that even the Imperium, warriors such as myself are rare. Perhaps Danarius believes I should feel honored? And now he wishes his precious investment returned, even if he must rip it from my corpse.”

“Seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf,” Sidonie said simply. It took Fenris by surprise. His green gaze widened a little, pools of darkness in the starlight, and he gave an amused laugh before catching himself and trying to hide it behind a cough.

“Yes, well…” He schooled his smile away again. “The truth is, I know nothing of the ritual that placed these markings upon me. It was Danarius’s choice. One he now regrets.” Sidonie considered him a moment, dark eyebrows under a shock of white hair, and then nodded. She had never heard of something like those markings or their powers. She had certainly never felt anything like it before - not that she made a habit of downing lyrium potions. They were expensive to come by in Lothering, and made people suspicious. All the same, if it really was a rare as he said, even with the slavers gone now, there could always be more.

“So, Danarius will keep chasing you,” she said, more a statement, less a question.

“He is...too proud of not to,” he replied, glancing up towards the smoky stars through his lashes. “Perhaps one day the hunt will cost him more than he is willing to pay, but I doubt that matters any longer.” He bowed his head. “I carved my path to freedom in blood. I left that life behind. Yet his bounty hunters follow me no matter where I go.” He looked to her. “I will run no longer.”

“Then, if you are willing to work with a mage, I will help you. Kirkwall stabs the friendless in the back quicker than a pickpocket cuts a purse.” Carver glared at her from the steps, but said nothing. Fenris nodded, then glanced back to the mansion.

“Do you think you could...mend the Veil?” he asked suddenly. “For the next time he decides to come back.”

“Maybe,” Sidonie said softly. “I suppose I can try.” He nodded.

“Then I thank you, Serrah Hawke. Should you have need of me, or find it convenient, I shall be here.” He nodded to the door of the delapidated mansion, then his gaze flickered back to her, and he almost seemed to smile. “If Danarius wishes his mansion back. He is free to return and claim it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ABOUT THE CHEST IN THE HOUSE  
> We never actually get to find out what Fenris _thought_ was going to be in the box, so I'm going with documents required to claim him as a slave. Since Tevinter still allows slavery, and the Free Marches are notoriously mercantile and full of slavers selling for those markets, I imagine there's a way of keeping track of ownership in Tevinter itself, and copies of those documents would be quite valuable to Fenris and probably important for slavers to have too. Since Fenris's memory is a blank before the markings, it is hard coming up with something he would plausibly be trying to look for. Fenris is a character that will get a lot of careful treatment. He probably has some form of PTSD, and there are suggestions that Danarius may have sexually abused him. Trauma exists in both mental memory and physical, the body can recall things the mind has no recollection of and responds to them, and we see this a lot with Fenris as a character. Making the contents of the box something that he might mentally think of was the goal here, so that is where we have ended up. He probably told Anso it was lyrium to make it easier to find hired help, so everyone else believed that it was lyrium in the box.
> 
> NOTES ABOUT MEERAN AND ATHENRIL  
> These two have no real ties in the games that are clear, but I imagine given the work they do they do in fact cross paths from time to time. Meeran here is a patron of the Blooming Rose, and has already demonstrated what happens to people who mess with his Red Iron men (he has they killed as per his recruitment quest). The Blooming Rose is officially co-owned by Harlan and Madame Lusine. Madame Lusine runs the business internally, but Harlan is actually the head of the Coterie, an establishment which is a direct threat to Athenril as she is very specific competition for them, and the Coterie does not like competition. That being said, Meeran is probably capable of going either way with Athenril when he meets her, working with her or against her as the situation requires. Sidonie has just turned his influence against her for her own security.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel and Sigrun begin their journey into the Deep Roads and meet with Jerrik Dace; Fenris finds himself in an actual conversation; Sidonie travels to the Bone Pit to see what has happened to Hubert's miners.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence, slavery
> 
> Comments always welcome!

Ever since the Legion had fallen at Bownammar, things had been emptier down in the Deep Roads. It had not taken long, however, for the dwarves to re-establish a presence at the outpost below Soldier’s Peak, and there were rumblings that House Helmi was starting operations to reclaim Kal’Hirol for the dwarves. These efforts were supported by Eideann and Alistair, of course, and frankly the fewer darkspawn and more dwarves living under Amaranthine, the more comfortable Nathaniel would be as its Arl. 

That said, there was only a minimal presence yet, so as they eased their way down into the tunnels, he was wary of traps and darkspawn in the area. There was still the potential for Awakened darkspawn – it had not been long enough for them all to disappear, and they were not all dead, some had to have fled when the Mother and the Architect fell.

Sigrun slid down beside him, sending a cascade of rock and scree down the incline in the tunnel. Ahead of them, the warm glow of the lava-lit Deep Roads beckoned, and the sound of armor reassured them that the expedition forces sent to meet there were indeed waiting.

It turned out to be a grim-faced Legionnaire Captain and a handful of scouts. He did not bother with introductions. Instead, settling his axe across his shoulders, he tipped his head to survey them.

“Our job is to see you beyond Cadash Thaig into occupied Ortan Thaig,” he said gruffly. “Journey is a few days on foot. The man you’re to meet there is Lord Jerrik Dace, heir to House Dace of Orzammar.” And with that said, he turned and lumbered back along the Deep Roads, clearly expecting them to follow. 

After the experience in Kal’Hirol, Nathaniel honestly had not been sure what to expect of the Deep Roads. They seemed empty here in these parts, and that was concerning all its own, but the passages were well lit, and the small scouting band was hard and severe and determined to see their mission done. The Legion was hard, he realized. Sigrun was the exception to their grim-faced exterior. 

He did not immediately regret the choice to do the work himself. Eideann would have come herself, but he was hardly going to allow that, and frankly he wanted the chance to escape Amaranthine, and the bedchamber that still made him think of Anders. He grimaced a little, eyes narrowed as he walked, then sighed. 

It had smarted of course to wake up to an empty bed, and when the news had come of Rolan and the Templars being massacred in the clearing, he had known that Anders and Justice were involved. The man had left his cat, after all. Whatever stood between them…and he did not know the answer to that, if he ever had, it was something Anders had denied or discarded. Anders did not want him. 

But that left him a life of empty duty and responsibility. He had been looking forward to peaceful days, the opportunity to simply exist with his new-found colleagues, and to set his own mark to the Vigil which still bore so many trappings of his father and family, and yet stood a stranger to him after so many years. He had wanted to build a place of warmth to fill the empty and hurting halls that had rendered his own family apart, but all he had left to fill it with was duty and certainty that he was the Arl, and everyone knew it. 

The Council Eideann had established had proven useful, all influential voices which seemed entirely capable of deferring to his sister’s judgment for the moment. Delilah, newly proclaimed Bann of the City of Amaranthine, had been more a help to him than she knew in those last few weeks, setting Amaranthine to rights again after so much hardship. But she too had her new family, her new life. And Nathaniel’s new life…he did not really even understand yet what it was.

He focused a great deal on Sigrun there, who seemed a little out of step with her Legionnaires. He wondered if they disdained her for joining the Wardens as well, but realized that the motives were much the same. A Legionnaire was a dwarven Warden minus the Joining. They swore to die in the fight against the darkspawn, their ranks swollen with criminals and low-lifes doing penance for wrongs committed in their past lives much as many of the Warden recruits were. They were serious, and stoic, and grim-faced. 

Nathaniel was beginning to realize that the laughter he had known with Eideann’s Wardens was not the norm at all, but an exception, a little world Eideann had encouraged to flourish. He wondered how it had been with the Wardens before Ostagar, all those that had perished there. Alistair had not spoken of it, seemed content to let their souls rest. Nathaniel hoped in time and with some careful recruiting he could build a family of Wardens that could make something of the organization at the Vigil. 

The entrance they had chosen was the one not far from Kal’Hirol, so the journey to Cadash Thaig and the subsequently populated Ortan Thaig was a shorter one than previously thought. Time was different under the earth. It made him uncomfortable to think on it, in all honesty. 

His hand slipped to his neck where a gold pendant with a lyrium hourglass carefully kept track of time, and sighed, closing his fingers about the timepiece. Eideann had given it to him on loan, and he meant to take care of it, but so far it had done little to help him orient himself.

“How do you stand living under all this rock?” he finally said in an exasperated tone to Sigrun, who raised an eyebrow through her muddy tattoos.

“I don’t understand,” she replied simply. “We just do.”

“Orzammar is under a mountain,” he replied, considering the Deep Roads. Just thinking about the crushing weight of a mountain overhead makes me shudder.” She grinned, glancing out over the Deep Roads and shrugging.

“Surfacers live in buildings,” she answered. “If a building falls on you, it will make you just as dead.” That was a fair point. He scowled.

“Thanks for the reminder.” She gave him her most charming smile.

“Come on, Lieutenant. Don’t get squeamish now. We’ve barely set out.” 

But the weirdest thing about the Deep Roads was that they did not change. It took Nathaniel half the trip to put his finger on the oddness that was the lack of the passage of time. Shadows remained permanently cast from torches and great oiled braziers. Nothing moved, stirred at certain times of day. It was like eternity decided to stand still.

It was said that dwarves had long memories. They kept their histories in a Shaperate of Memories, even. He wondered if that complete lack of the cycle of time was part of the cause of their agelessness. 

_Get used to it, Nate,_ he told himself. _You’ll be spending a lot more time down here than you ever wanted to._

They were days travelling, but when they did reach Cadash Thaig, his entire world changed. The vibrant foliage of the sprawling city was like emerald, and the scent of salt from the Waking Sea made him intensely homesick. Cadash Thaig, so close to the surface, even had grass and pockets open to the sky after so long. He could see stars twinkling above, or clouds that threatened snow over the Coastlands hills out eastward towards Soldier’s Peak. 

It was a breath of fresh air for him, and the last he would get, so he savored it and then turned his mind to the task before him.

Jerrik Dace, the Legionnaires told him as they travelled, was only recently made heir to House Dace. His family was not particularly wealthy, most of the business taking a severe hit when surface trade dried up during the Blight. They owed many debts, and the original heir had perished in a Glory Proving against the son of the late King Endrin, now deceased brother to King Bhelen Aeducan. Jerrik’s inheritance was a world of problems and money-owing. 

It did not take long for Nathaniel to realize that House Dace had sought to find Amgarrak to alleviate their financial burden. Sigrun explained to him about golems, that they were once dwarves cast into stone or metal form with lyrium, and he remembered meeting Shayle of House Cadash when the golem and its enchanter companion had come by Amaranthine prior to Satinalia.

It was almost First Day now, would be soon, and there were preparations underway for celebrations already back home. He hoped he would not miss them. He had been looking forward to spending the time with Delilah again. 

But thinking of holidays made him think of Anders again, of that heated kiss by the fireplace on Satinalia against the bookshelves. He shoved the thought away and let it be.

On the third day, they reached Ortan Thaig. It was thick with decay and the Blight, bones littering the floor. The remnants of giant webs hung still in the great chasms there, but below it all there were people starting to clear away the mess, to make the Thaig theirs again. Shapers were milling about in the square, discussing the potential of opening the Ortan Thaig forges. Casteless workers dug through collapsed tunnels to clear the old city while Warrior Caste stood. All of them, Sigrun explained, would be in the pocket of the unbreakable House Helmi, the rivals of House Dace. 

The Legionnaires left them in the square, but Sigrun seemed to have a general idea where to go. He did not dare ask her why that might be, but he assumed she had spent enough time in those tunnels to have a general idea of what was what. Also, dwarven Stone Sense was legendary, even on the surface. Sigrun had not been topside too long. She probably still had it, though in Kirkwall and the Free Marches Nathaniel had learned that surface dwarves tended to lose track of it after a while.

Sigrun took him across a giant stone bridge towards a row of houses nestled on the far bank. There, a small group of dwarves seemingly apart from the others were milling about waiting, presumably for them. The pattern on their shields was different. House Dace, then? 

At their approach, one of the men stepped forward, armed with a pair of wicked looking knives and an equally dangerous mustache and thin beard, he considered them with grey eyes. He had that sort of open look that meant he would probably never be a good politician, and was more likely to trust the wrong sorts of people than most, but there was a sharpness in his voice when he spoke that underlay his general appearance of artlessness. His grey eyes narrowed.

“A human? Here?” he asked as they approached. Sigrun gave a small nod of head, which he immediately dismissed because she was still Casteless as far as he was concerned.

“I’m Warden-Lieutenant Nathaniel Howe, Arl of Amaranthine, here on behalf of Warden-Commander Eideann Cousland-Theirin, Queen of Ferelden,” he said, hoping the titles would open doors. “I’m looking for Lord Jerrik Dace.” The man crossed his arms.

“Well, by the ancestors, would you look at you?” he said grimly, then sighed. “And the Brand?” Sigrun raised her eyebrow.

“Warden Sigrun, Legionnaire Scout from the Soldier’s Peak Outpost,” she said simply, and the dwarf eased off a little.

“I thought she might…well, it’s probably lucky anyone came at all,” he grumbled to himself, then looked up to fix Nathaniel with a firm look. “I’m Jerrik of House Dace,” he said at last. “Thank you again for helping me, Warden. Everyone else has given up.” 

He was clad in leather armor, thick vambraces on both his arms. His armor was high quality, if practical. He motioned for them to follow him into the nearest house, where they found a stone table and benches, the scent of nug filling the chamber as it roasted on a spit in the hearth. Jerrik Dace took a seat at the first bench, and Sigrun lounged back against the wall as Nathaniel crossed towards the center of the room. 

“To business then. Care to give me some more of the details?”

“I can’t abandon Brogan,” Jerrik finally said as Nathaniel took a seat at last. “He’s my brother. I apologize for insisting that you come without men. House Dace does not want the location of Amgarrak known to the rest of Orzammar.”

“Expecting trouble?” Sigrun said from the door, toeing the floor with the tip of her Warden boots. Jerrik gave up trying to consider her beneath him and looked to her then.

“An expedition of over twenty men doesn’t just disappear,” he told her. She raised an eyebrow but gave a curt nod. The entire Legion had been lost at Kal’Hirol after all. She was no stranger to people falling and vanishing in the Deep Roads. Jerrik grimaced. “There’s something in there,” he told them. “And I’m guessing it’s not friendly.” A dwarf appeared from the back chamber, bustling about with metal tankards and pouring them lichen-based alcohol. Nathaniel took a single test, and promptly set down the mug again, but Sigrun took to nursing hers back against the wall. Jerrik’s hands closed on the tankard as he leaned towards Nathaniel across the table. “We just have to be prepared for anything.”

“You’re being awfully secretive,” Nathaniel said at last, weighing the worth of the man before him. He still had yet to hear what might be in there, or how long the others had been missing. Darkspawn was his job, not other creatures, though he was starting to wonder if the occupation of a Warden outside the Blights was ever really a cut and dry thing.

“House Dace,” Jerrik said curtly, “sacrificed many men to discover the place. Any knowledge found there should be ours to do with as we please.” So Helmi really was a genuine concern then. If what the letter intimated was true, the Thaig’s location itself was worth a fortune – certainly enough to start paying down the debts House Dace was said to hold. “Of course,” Jerrik added, “Brogan is my primary concern. But Amgarrak hides secrets. Great ones.” 

“So, you contacted the Wardens why?” Sigrun asked. “We aren’t hired help. We fight darkspawn.” Jerrik’s look was cold as he considered her.

“We tried to hire Legionnaire help, a team led by a Commander Kardol, but they refused, and no one else will work for an expedition that has already lost twenty men. Kardol said if anyone could save Brogan, it was the Warden-Commander and her people.” Sigrun glanced dubiously to Nathaniel who at last nodded.

“How far is this Thaig?” 

“Not far. A short way south. We will be ready to leave after you have rested,” Jerrik replied, then peered into his mug. “Thank you again, for my brother’s sake, Wardens.” He drank down the contents in a single go, then pushed himself up with his hands braced on the edge of the stone table. “Feel free to make use of this house to ready yourselves for the journey. Once we set off, we will need to move fast.” And then he moved past them towards the front door.

“What do you think?” Sigrun asked, and Nathaniel caught her blue gaze watching him. He grimaced, then carefully pushed the tankard of lichen ale towards her, which she took with a grin and polished off herself since he did not want it. 

“I think we will see what we are dealing with when we arrive, but for now, if it is darkspawn, he will need all the help we can get.” He rose, reaching for the metal door and considering the next chamber where a pair of stone beds with blankets stood for them. He sighed, despairing, but let himself cross the threshold. “For now, rest up. I want to be off within the next few hours.” She laughed, but he was already crawling onto the stone bed himself, as the metal door swung shut behind him.

***

Fenris found himself disturbed in the early hours of the morning by a perky looking Sidonie Hawke, a Carver who clearly was not properly awake yet, and a Varric who he presumed never slept because he looked exactly as he had the night before. Fenris himself had spent the evening rifling through whatever he could find in the mansion, and had just begun on the cellars not an hour before, when she arrived.

He was wary of her, but she had helped him, and he had promised to assist her in return, so he let her into the mansion. It was grimier in the daylight, and sadder. He glanced around bleakly, wondering if he should be offering chairs or something, when Carver slumped onto a bench with his head in his hands, and Varric shuffled his feet over the broken tiles before shaking his head.

“We’ll get the place fixed up in no time if you end up sticking around,” he said, more to himself, and that made Fenris alarmed. He opened his mouth to reply, but Varric was already giving himself a tour of the house, and Sidonie Hawke had moved to waylay him.

“So,” she said, crossing her arms, “you said you’d be willing to help me out, and I have some business that would benefit from an extra sword, if you don’t have anything else to do.” He sighed, nodding, and then crossed to the steps, intending to gather his sword. He was not expecting her to follow him up the steps towards the chamber where Danarius’s documents were scattered about. 

The fire from the night before still glowed as cooling ashes in the grate. Sooner or later, he intended to rip the legs off one of the dining room chairs and feed it back up again. He did not need an entire mansion after all. But that was a task for another day. He crossed the room towards the small and tattered bed where he had spent the night, and gathered up his sword, feeling the cold steal firm and grounding in his fingers. When he glanced back, Sidonie Hawke was nosily considering the chambers in the daylight.

Kirkwall sun streamed through the shattered roof tiles, making patches of dawn’s light glow ethereally in pools on the floor. Fenris paused, standing just within the shadows, and considered the mage in his living space with no small amount of dubious forewarning. She looked up and her eyes seemed to glow the color of blood, and that send a warning through him he suddenly had to bank to control. Then he noticed what was in her hand.

A bottle, one of the ones he had dug from the cellars last night during his exploration. The top was uncorked, but it was still mostly full. She held it up.

“A bit early, don’t you think?” 

“Or late,” he replied, crossing and moving to take the bottle from her hands, turning it carefully in his hands.

“Aggregio Pavali,” he told her as she sank into a seat on one of the benches before the fireplace, leaning her staff against the wall carefully so as not to worry him – or so he assumed. She kept it close enough she could reach it just in case. He sighed. “There are six more bottles in the cellar,” he muttered, letting his eyes skim the rim of the glass. 

And then he brought it to his lips. The taste washed through him, familiar and sickly-sweet, and filled him with a twisted longing and a familiar hate. He concentrated on that emotion a moment, then turned, forcing it all out, and threw the bottle as hard as he could. It smashed against the marble wall, shattering into pieces and leaving a burgundy stain on the stone that trickled down towards the floor behind the desk. He glared at the stain, like he had been painting the walls in blood, and then turned away, his fists clenched, to look into the embers of the fire instead.

Danarius. Always there, always dogging his footsteps in everything he did, even when it was something so simple, so easy, as drinking wine. He felt the flood of uncalled memory, things he could not grasp. His body felt the tense echoes of remembrance, but his mind was clouded and continued to struggle with the images. What he did remember, after the markings…

Eyes downcast. A silver tray in his hands. Laughter, touches, teasing and playful, like he were some ornament. Pouring goblets of richest silver for a Magister’s guests. He drew a shaky breath and forced away the images.

And remembered Hawke. 

She was watching him with a raised eyebrow when he at last let his gaze slide to her. At his attention, she fixed him with a flat look.

“Danarius used to have me pour it for his guests,” he explained quietly. “My appearance intimidated them, he said, which he enjoyed.” Something flickered in the back of her eyes, which if he had seen from most people would have made him very cautious. But from her, the flicker seemed like she were settling in, taking a seat in the conversation rather than lingering to eavesdrop before passing by. 

“I can’t imagine why they would be put off,” she said simply, a warmth in her that seemed to glow even as she sat in the warm Kirkwall sunlight, cast in gold in one of the streams of light from the roof. Fenris sighed.

“You say what’s on your mind,” he muttered. “I’ll give you that.” He glanced back towards the stain on the wall, and then shook his head. “It’s good I can still take pleasure in the small things.” It was no excuse, a suggestion. He was not entirely glad at the thought of a bedroom full of broken glass, but he did not regret the action itself. He rarely did things without purpose. Throwing the bottle, casting aside the wine was symbolic. If his mind could not remember, his body insisted on trying anyway, and it at least eased a little.

Hawke’s oxblood gaze slipped to the wine stain too and she sighed.

“You could have offered me a glass first, you know,” she said a little airily, but he saw that flicker in her eyes again. She was speaking to him on a different level. _I’m listening,_ that look said.

“There’s more, if you’re really interested,” he said with a shrug, responding to her suggestion as well as her real offer underneath it. _Don’t make me tell you this._ Whether intentional or not, she picked up on the subtext. She looked away, nose in the air.

“Perish the thought!” she said with a small smile, and her smile was gentle then. “How else would you redecorate the walls?” _In your own time._ He just gave a small smirk and finally sank onto the other bench to consider her. 

She was still a mage, and that still concerned him, and he could sense the fear in her too. She was still uncertain what to make of him. But she was there, in his house, and had helped him the night before. And she was listening. And that…felt strange.

“I wanted to leave my past behind me, but it won’t stay there,” he finally said, meeting her bloody gaze. That was their natural color, even if they did make him think of blood mages. That was just her. When she looked at him, it made him feel like he could see straight through to her heart. She bowed her head a little, crossing her ankles as she braced the heels of her hands against the bench to adjust herself. 

“It rarely does,” she replied, and shifted her gaze to study the shattered ceiling. “I think it isn’t supposed to.” He studied her, suddenly curious. He knew she was a mercenary, working for the Red Iron, but little else. She was not well off, her priority money and obtaining it, though she must have reasons for that above and beyond mere greed, especially to be up so early. And sometimes…sometimes she appeared to do what was right simply because her heart would not let her do otherwise. A soul in conflict then. Need pitted against desire. 

“Where do you come from?” he asked her suddenly, and she glanced up through dark eyelashes.

“My family was originally from Kirkwall," she said, "but I have lived in Ferelden almost all my life.” Her eyes had darkened to pools of near-black under her dark hair. “We had to run when the Blight began.” 

Ah. A refugee herself then. Both of them on the run. Both of them choosing Kirkwall to stop, to stand, to fight.

Well, to be fair he had no choice. He had to stop somewhere, to face Danarius at some time. Better now than never again. But Hawke was not trapped in Kirkwall, or did not seem to be. A woman as capable as she to dispatch an entire slaver band was not to be underestimated. He wondered what it was that made her stay, but maybe there just were no other options better. 

“Have you never wanted to return to Ferelden?” he asked quietly. She gave a small smile leaning back in her seat like she were trying to find a comfortable position.

“I grew up in Ferelden,” she said after a moment. “It will always be my home.” He shook his head.

“The Blight is over. You could rebuild what you lost. Do you truly not want to?” There was a pang of envy that took him hard and he pressed his lips into a thin line. She was watching him, reading his reaction, and then she smiled sadly, giving a shake of head.

“I have to admit it’s an attractive idea,” she told him, and he heard all the obligation in her voice that held her back.

“But not now,” he finished for her. “I understand.” She gave him a grateful smile, and eased a little, and he found himself easing too. He considered that a moment, then let it go. He was tired, and she had helped him, and perhaps this once he could stand down from the edge of caution. “Still, to have the option must be gratifying.” What he would not give for that chance to go back. He hated the way his voice grew hoarse around the words with thick longing.

“You’ve been on the run a long time then?” she asked him, and he sniffed, counting back.

“Three years now,” he said softly. Seheron, Minrathous, Vyrantium, Starkhaven, Ansburg, Wycombe, Kirkwall… He grimaced. “Danarius has a way of finding me. Perhaps it is the markings?” Sidonie considered him, and he did not like the musing thoughts she was mulling over, so he headed them off. “Whatever the means, it never takes him long to follow. This is the first time I’ve given him reason to pause.” He picked at the wood of the bench with a gauntleted hand. He had not even bothered taking off any of his armor or even his coat the night before. “I suppose there are advantages in numbers.” 

Sidonie gave a soft laugh.

“Depends on the numbers,” she replied, and he glanced up to catch her smile. In the sunlight, she seemed vibrant. It put him a little off balance to see it, so he looked back to the hearth and the low burning embers. “Haven’t you sought help before?” he heard her say, and he smiled mirthlessly.

“Hirelings when I could steal the coin,” he answered. “Never anyone of substance.” Except of course that she had stayed, had helped him even without setting a price, had barged into a mansion, this southern mage, to take on a blood mage Magister on his behalf. And… no, never anyone of substance. “Until you.” His eyes flickered up to her, and she was watching him with quiet eyes. “Danarius will not give up, however. I await his return.” She nodded.

“And if he does give up? What then?” she asked him softly, though he could tell by her voice she did not believe he would. She had taken him at his word. Fenris gritted his teeth.

“Then I go to him,” he said. “I will not live with a wolf at my back.” There was a silence between them a moment, and then Sidonie looked across the room.

“Do you know where he would have gone then?” she asked. He nodded, crossing his arms and leaning forward. 

“I imagine he has returned to Minrathous.” The glow from the embers was warm on his face. “I dare not go near the city while he is alive. It is better to wait for him to leave his fortress, fight from a fortified position.” He realized he was getting ahead of himself there, making assumptions. She had been so engaged in hearing his story, that he had already factored her in as an ally. He hurriedly corrected for the mistake. “I do not expect you help when that day comes,” he assured her, “but I would not turn it aside.” She grinned, then shifted, propping one boot up on the wood of the bench and wrapping her arms about her leg. For a moment, she looked no less intimidating than a young girl. His mind went to her staff, propped against the wall behind her, and he sighed.

“Sounds like you’re planning to stick around for some time then,” she told him, watching him over her knee. “Do you intend to keep living here?” He glanced about the room, with its uprooted tiles, battered furnishings, and torn ceiling. He considered the mess of bottles and papers on the desk, and the lute lying haphazardly on the floor nearby, and then gave a nod. A tattered abode for a tattered life, a cluttered mess of luxuries gone awry, reminders of a life he could not truly remember, things his body ached to think on and things his mind strove to forget.

“I…haven’t decided,” he finally said, unwilling to admit to the reason. “For now, it’s as good as any other place. I would return to Seheron if I could, but…there is no life for me there.” Forcing himself to say the words out loud closed some sort of door for him. Sidonie was watching him with the knowing eyes of another homeless soul.

“Seheron? Is that where you’re from?” 

“So I’ve been told,” he said shortly. He had revealed too much. So many years of running, of never stopping. He had been desperate to say the words to someone, anyone, and at the first opportunity told her without being able to stop himself. His abruptness made her confused. He saw it flickering in her eyes.

“Were you very young when you left then?” 

“Perhaps.” He did not need to go out of his way to make a mage he hardly knew comfortable. He did not owe her an explanation for his life, especially when he could not explain it himself.

She took it in stride, and if she was offended at his bluntness made no further show of it. She rolled her shoulders instead. 

“Maybe it’s just me,” she said quietly, “but with all these plans to hold the fort, wait for him to come to you, this being as good a place as any…it sounds like you want to stick around.” He looked away, then shrugged.

“I could see myself staying,” he finally said, “for the right reasons.” He did not share those, but he did push himself up from his seat. “I…should thank you again for helping me against the hunters.” Sidonie looked up at him, and he tore his gaze away. Her oxblood gaze was making him nervous.

“Yes,” she said with a smirk. “You should.” He looked away.

“Had I known Anso would find me a woman so capable, I might have asked him to look sooner,” he said before he realized he had said it and she might find it awkward. He glanced hurriedly to her, and saw the flicker of amusement twinkling in her gaze.

“You sound like you’re about to ask for a loan,” she told him, rising to join him. Even at full height, they were the same size. He gave a soft laugh, shaking his head, and raised his arms, looking about the room with its crumbling roof, lit by sunlight, and its scattered papers and tiles and furniture.

“Well, this mansion does require some upkeep,” he said. She smirked, and he found himself considering her smile with unease. And then he sighed, because frankly she was pretty, and for a moment at least he was willing to appreciate that, even if she was a mage, because if she was going to cause him harm she would have already. At least, on that particular occasion. He considered her, tilting his head slightly, and some of his hair slipped into his eyes. “Perhaps I shall practice my flattery for your next visit?” he said simply. “With any luck, I’ll become at it.” Her laugh of delight made something inside him hum, and he paused to consider that, and then let his lips twist in the slightest smile.

“Are you always so charming in the morning?” she shot back. “Or is this only after you’ve polished off the wine cellars of abandoned mansions?” He simply shook his head.

There was a noise on the stairs, and he went immediately on guard, but it was only her brother, Carver Hawke, stumbling into the room with the look of a man who had finally begun to wake up and was grumpy about the entire ordeal.

“Did you convince him yet?” he asked.

“Convince me?” Fenris asked, eyes narrowing.

“Ah, yes,” Sidonie said, like she had just been getting there. “As lovely as it is to call on acquaintances in the morning like civilized people, the purpose of our visit, as I said before, was to get your help. There’s the potential for a good reward, and – “

“Fine.” She blinked.

“You don’t even want to know what the payout is? Or the job?”

“Not really. You can tell me on the way.” She considered him, weighing that, and then nodded, and he shouldered his sword Lethendralis. 

“Alright then,” she said, switching course and following him as he made his way past Carver Hawke to the landing. “Varric! Come on!” she called. “We’re going!” Varric, peering intently at the house bookshelves, looked up with a grin.

“Wonderful,” he said in reply, sliding one of the books home onto the shelf again and hefting his crossbow, Bianca. “Nothing quite like a sunny stroll outside Kirkwall first thing in the morning.” 

***  
Sidonie was pretty sure that when they had said a sunny stroll, Fenris had not been expecting a sunny stroll to the Bone Pit, but it was rather too late to turn about now, and she had obligations to meet. The Bone Pit was located on the other side of Kirkwall from Sundermount, nestled within the foothills that backed into the Vimmarks. As she approached, she started to feel the restless sensation of the weak Veil, spirits rustling beyond, and knew that ahead was the site of another of Tevinter’s atrocities. She was not alone in her trepidation either. As they climbed the loose slate gravel path towards the main mine operations, Varric drew alongside her looking severe.

“There’s work here,” he grimaced, “but I wouldn’t call it paying work.” Fenris gave a sniff behind them, glaring at the air like it had offended him. Perhaps it had. The Bone Pit had been built on the backs of thousands upon thousands of slaves. 

“This ground is cursed,” Fenris muttered. “Only wretched or injured souls would linger here.” Sidonie was inclined to agree.

“Well we’re all sufficiently wretched enough we may as well do what we can,” she replied. 

The main mining operations were empty of life. A cold wind swept down from the mountains, rippling across the camps where loosely tied tents flapped and snapped against their thin poles. A few papers ruffled in the breeze, pinned down by rocks, but there was no sign of any of the miners, not even bodies or traces of people fleeing. Sidonie narrowed her gaze.

“The Bone Pit’s never been a friendly place,” Varric muttered, “but it’s empty. This shit is weird.” 

“I thought would at least find bodies,” Sidonie said warily. The wind whistling in the hills was her only reply.

“Maybe they’re inside,” Carver suggested, stalking past her and up the first ramp, using the rail tracks from the mining carts as steps to climb the steep incline. There was a quiet stillness there, and a low hot breeze that clashed with the mountain air and made her think of yellow drakestone. 

“There’s a foul wind coming from that cavern,” Fenris said behind her, “and I smell death.” And that did not exactly help. 

The mine tracks descended down into the caverns, which were dark and gloomy. Sidonie reached for her magic first, filling the palm of her hand with a flickering orb of fire which cast flickering shadows across the wall and chased back the darkness. 

They took the incline carefully, until it led to some wooden steps, and emerged at last in the first of the chambers where the mine formally began. Something fluttered overhead, and Sidonie froze, expecting to have disturbed bats or the like. Instead, she took a hurried step back as something large dropped from the ceiling, and then there was a shriek in the darkness. She cast the light out, sending it spiraling into the center of the chamber, and dozens of glinting cold eyes stared back.

“Well, shit.” She heard Varric say, and nock his bolt to ready Bianca. Carver and Fenris drew their swords. 

Most of the beasts were dragonlings that dropped from the ceiling or crawled from their holes and set upon them with fervor. One, however, was actually a larger dragon, and it spread its wings like it were yawning before hurtling towards them.

“Dragons!” she heard Carver say, mostly unhelpfully given the circumstances. 

“Carver, look out!” she cried as he went dashing towards the grown dragon. It was still small, but dangerous all the same. And there was never just one dragon. Its wings buffeted the air, yanking the feet from under her, and she went down, Fenris and Varric with her, tumbling to her back and feeling the air being forced from her body at the hard landing. 

She was not going to leave it at that. Oh no. Now she was angry. She hauled herself up, gripping her staff tight, and flipped it over, hacking her way through a few of the dragonlings that swarmed about them. Fenris was moving then, his markings aglow, dancing from corner to corner of the cavern, a blue blur like he was half within the Fade itself. Varric struggled up beside her, and she put herself before him for cover. And then she reached for force.

The Veil snapped back, angry and sharp, slamming into the dragonlings in her path. They screeched, reared up, and she concentrated outward, thrusting them back in a circle about her. The air seemed to ripple with the magic of it all. She thought she saw Fenris dart clear of the blast. And then she moved.

It was a bit like dancing, she thought, not for the first time. She had been training against Carver for a long time, but his movements were quite clunky and awkward in their own way. He had none of the finesse of masters, but all the ability to win by hitting hard and quick and unexpectedly, breaking all the forms. And Sidonie had needed to learn to prepare for those. 

Her staff twirled, the bladed ends glinting in the firelight. The halberd axe head whipped up and about, and she moved. Something in her adjusted to the unorthodox way of moving, and she spun about, kicking one of the dragons back before spearing it through with the spearhead end of the staff. 

She felt rather than saw Carver coming to stand with his back to hers, and Fenris flittered in and out of her vision, darting from enemy to enemy and finishing them off with a flick of his wrist. The sword in his hand moved like it were made of air.

Sidonie opened herself through the lyrium core of the staff, felt magic fill her to bursting, the power of intent made material, and fire formed about her. And then the dragons burned.

Fighting fire with fire was always her wont. She knew no other way, not really. She let it rain down upon them, falling form the cavern ceiling like raindrops to splatter across the stone. And then when the smaller ones were dead, she and Carver turned towards the larger one. Sidonie’s eyes were cold.

“Ready, Sister?” Carver asked her quietly. 

“All yours, Brother,” she offered, and he moved.

Carver’s sword flipped around, up and over, slicing a thick line of blood through the dragon’s scales. The sword was his standard issue, the same he had always had, but if it was worn it was well-cared for, and it shone now. Sidonie reached again for force, focused on the length of the blade, sent it rippling up the flat of the sword. Carver swung again.

And this time the sword came down, hacking through the dragon’s wing and splintering scale and bone as it carved a deep slice through its lithe body. The dragon roared, Fenris shifted, and then stabbed down right as a bolt from Bianca hurtled through its maw.

The dragon staggered, wavered, and fell, and Fenris appeared at Carver’s side looking grim and distinctly unimpressed at the entire ordeal.

“Not entirely as you expected?” Varric asked, crossing to join them and staring at the dragons. Sidonie grimaced.

“Well, at least we’ve got a better idea what happened to Hubert’s miners now.” 

“Two coppers there’s more ahead,” Carver said, but no one took him up on it. 

“That’s a bet even Uncle Gamlen wouldn’t take,” Sidonie sniffed, and then took the steps down to the lower passages. She was not wrong, and neither was Carver. Ahead, more of the dragonlings scattered in the darkness and another of the grown dragons ambled towards them. Sidonie yanked the dragonlings closer, let fire erupt outwards across them all again, and then took out the rest with the blades on her halberd staff. Carver’s greatsword cut through three of the creatures with one swipe. At that size, they were barely a challenge, and their small bodies were still too frail to be a true threat. 

Sidonie twisted, threw up her hand, and let fire erupt towards the larger dragon instead. And then she tipped her staff to the halberd end with its flat top, braced herself for the leap, and vaulted from the center of the dragonlings towards the larger beast. Fenris flitted at her side as she rolled up onto her feet at the landing and swung her halberd back up across her body. 

She reached up again, as if she could reach and catch the Veil with her fingers, and gripped her hand into a fist. She felt it ripple, then constrict about the larger dragon, which shuddered in her grasp. She held it fast, as fast as she could, and Fenris shot up with his blade in hand, swinging it hard across the creature’s face. 

The dragon roared, broke free of Sidonie’s spell, and reared up on its hind legs. Sidonie slid into the space, flipped her staff to the spear end, and thrust upward, feeling the metal sink deep into dragon flesh through the mottled grey scales across its belly. It roared, flailed, and Sidonie hauled her staff free before repeating the motion, this time sending a wave of fire along the staff towards the beast.

And then she stepped back as it too died, and stood over the form a moment, staff smoking slightly from the fire. She checked it for damage, then glanced towards the others.

“How many more, do you think?” she asked. 

To be fair, part of her was invigorated. She was tired, yes, but fighting these dragons was certainly the makings of a good story, and it seemed easy enough. She rarely had the opportunity for such things – her targets were regularly people who either crossed Meeran or crossed someone he worked for. She did not like killing people, even people who meant harm to others, but circumstances had forced her hand. Dragons though…well, that felt a little more like the stories. 

She carried on up the trail towards the next caverns again, pushing past a mining cart full to the brim with drakestone chalk. The stuff stank, but its application for alchemists across the world meant it was never out of favor among apothecaries and the like. She was not entirely familiar with all its uses, but she knew it was valuable. If Hubert’s workers could come back to work, the place would be a gold mine – or the equivalent. 

That all rested on their success today, but given what they had seen so far she was confident they could clear the threat. The average miner would not be much use against a full dragon, but a pair of mercenaries, one with magic, a rare lyrium-fueled warrior from Tevinter, and a dwarf with a rapid-release crossbow and enough bolts to do some damage were much more evenly matched. 

The noise of skittering stone snapped her from the thought and she narrowed her eyes, taking the next few steps carefully. But when she rounded the corner, she was no longer face to face with more dragons. Instead, she was peering into the frightened eyes of a concerned man who stank of old ale, sweat, and fear. Sidonie looked him up and down, gave him the time to figure out she was human, and then he looked between them with wild eyes.

“Praise Andraste you came along!” he finally said in a hoarse voice, like he had not had water for awhile, and was raw from screaming or sobbing. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Them dragons would have sniffed me out for certain!” 

“Hold on,” Sidonie said, putting up her free hand to quiet him a moment. “One thing at a time. What happened here?” He fixed his gaze on her, a shock of red hair the color of flame atop his wrinkled brow, and gritted his teeth.

“I’ll tell you what I can,” he said, stroking his fingers down his large sideburns nervously, “but be a friend and keep your voice down. There’s another dragon close by!” Sidonie followed his gaze as he glanced back into the passage behind him, and then she nodded. 

“Where did the dragons come from?” she insisted, and he shook his head.

“We was mining a new tunnel when the wall collapsed and dragons came through! It was a bloody slaughter! Scared out of my wits, I ran like my arse was on fire! It probably was!” He looked back nervously again and so Sidonie moved aside a little and he drew into the space she made, eager to get as far away from whatever was at the other end as possible. “I went the wrong way. Ended up trapped here,” he explained. 

“Did anyone else manage to escape with you?” Sidonie asked, and he grimaced. 

“Some of my fellows ran for the surface,” he admitted. “I hope they made it.” Sidonie nodded, but if they had reached the surface none had reported in to Hubert. She directed him past her.

“Well,” she said with a sigh, “you’d better get going then.” She pointed him the right way. “Try not to get eaten.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice, but you should leave too,” he said in alarm, squeezing past her. “Don’t go that way. There’s a huge dragon back there.” And then he shoved a path through the others towards the cleared mine shafts and the exit. Sidonie grimaced.

A huge dragon? How huge was huge, exactly, she wondered, but had no answer without going to look.

“Seems we’ve another dragon to slay,” Varric sighed, inching forward in the passage. “Here I was hoping to get back to Kirkwall in time for happy hour.” If happy hour was in the afternoon, he would be fine. It was only late morning. After all, how hard could a frightened miner’s “huge” dragon really be to kill? She suspected it was one of the larger dragons she had already encountered.

“Hubert better pay us extra for the effort,” she said simply, and descended the steps towards the lower mine shafts. “As for happy hour, if we tell everyone at the Hanged Man we slew a dragon, I’m sure happy hour will easily become happy day, or at the very least _someone_ will buy us a drink in exchange for a story.”

“That’s how I get all my drinks, Hawke,” Varric grinned, and followed her out.

The mine shaft led out past a giant broken chasm where the new tunnels had erupted into the nest, but it was empty. Sidonie continued along the corridor, and as she did a feeling of apprehension overtook her. The tunnel widened significantly, larger and larger, until at last, at the far end, she saw it.

Daylight.

And then she heard it, a real roar, not the screeches and shrieks of the smaller dragons, but the heart-stopping rage of a true dragon, and then a rush of heated air washed back down the tunnel, stinking of drakestone. 

“Well,” Varric said, his voice flat and quiet. “Shit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ABOUT THE DWARVES:
> 
> In the end slides of Dragon Age Awakenings, there is suggestion that House Helmi financed and led a drive to reclaim Kal'Hirol. Since House Dace is also seeking Amgarrak for their fortunes, and Eideann and Alistair have already established their goal of securing the dwarven thaigs from the darkspawn, it makes sense this process is underway. Ortan Thaig was easy to reach for Caridin's Cross, and that journey itself seemed a familiar one to the Legion, who actually still had access to Bownammar until very recently before the Blight, so the roads are certainly not as closed off as they could be. Not the mention with Bhelen's election as King, the Casteless are now being encouraged to get actively involved in these measures, and while Bhelen cannot force a change upon the cultures/traditions of the dwarves, he can begin pushing for a Casteless presence to battle the darkspawn. The assumption here is that Bhelen has not been sitting on his heels. He has seen active service against the darkspawn, as have most dwarves, and that makes them an incredibly efficient army when facing them down, so it is not unreasonable to believe they made the best they could of the empty Deep Roads during and post-Blight after the election was settled to begin the reclamation.
> 
> Ortan Thaig and Cadash Thaig are particularly important as they lie close to Highever and Soldier's Peak and the Waking Sea. By the time we reach Inquisition, the events of the Descent DLC which take place under that region require a darkspawn presence, but also a heavy dwarven one, so it's not unreasonable to assume these are key outposts. It will change a few things for the story, but as mentioned, Dances will become more AU as we go along to adapt to things that make some logical sense in terms of progression. The dwarves have this capability, and also this desire to reclaim these lost Thaigs, so they probably are doing so.
> 
> Amgarrak, for the purpose of Dances, is assumed to be located at the marking of the man on the original dwarven map, labelled with a general question mark on my Deep Roads Overlay Map, which you can find [here](http://higheverrains.tumblr.com/post/124899607108/deep-roads-overlay-map) for those who have not seen it. This is just to make it easier for myself. Without an actual canon location (House Dace wants it a secret) I can't do much better. :)
> 
> NOTE ABOUT FENRIS'S 'FLITTING' ABOUT  
> This is actually one of his abilities (Lyrium Ghost I think), and it seems to correspond quite closely to the Fade Step a mage Inquisitor can learn in Dragon Age Inquisition. He's fast and seems ethereal, so this 'flitting' as I keep writing is really a description of that. If you watch Fenris in a fight (auto-level him up and it works fine), he actually does just seem to appear from place to place around the battlefield. 
> 
> NOTE ABOUT FORCE MAGIC  
> Sidonie does this a lot by controlling the Veil itself (or imagining that's how it works). It appears a bit unorthodox, but it corresponds most directly to the Rift Mage specialization from Dragon Age Inquisition which _is_ a but unorthodox as a general practice. She's effectively warping the Veil to impact the real world, or she assumes she is doing something along those lines. Even if it is all actually in her head, this helps her to work out how to do things. If she can picture herself being able to do it, she tends to be able to pull it off. That said, she's actually quite a talented mage for having very little by way of training. Malcolm did, of course, teach her some things (and Bethany too), but she is not Circle Mage educated and so she has a very different sort of way of looking at the world, only tinged with a bit of the Circle influence from Malcolm's perspective (and his was flexible, if his use of blood magic was anything to go by from Legacy).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie, Carver, Fenris, and Varric fight a dragon in the Bone Pit; an injury from the battle causes some worry, so Varric mentions rumors of a healer among the refugees; Sidonie goes to speak to Anders regarding Deep Roads maps and Carver's injury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: violence, gore (mild), torture (mentioned)
> 
> Comments always welcome and appreciated :)

_Holy Bride of the Maker, it’s an actual dragon!_ They were meant to be extinct, except they were not of course, clearly. The Archdemon had been a dragon anyway, right? Maker, what a joke. Here he was, just trying to get the coin together to feed the family with Sidonie, and they were going to be murdered by a bloody dragon. 

And how many times was he going to see dragons anyway? If he counted the Witch, the whole “they’re extinct” theory seemed to be less and less likely. Carver made a disgusted noise.

“Any chance we survive this?” he asked fiercely. Sidonie gave him a flat look. Varric gave a wild laugh.

“If we’re lucky.” 

“Come on,” Sidonie said darkly, and her voice was full of that hardness she sometimes displayed that he heard in his own voice. “We won’t know until we try.” 

“You want to battle a dragon,” Fenris said. His tone told Carver everything he needed to know about the elf’s opinion on that plan.

“We have a job to do, and we’ve already made it this far,” he said irritable, stalking forward. Sidonie at least was prepared to go.

He hoped someone would be left to explain to Mother how he had ended up charred into the Bone Pit stones that morning. 

The cavern exit was below the original entrance, further to the north. Great spires of the mountains stretched out before them under threatening clouds of mining dust that blotted out the sun there. Kirkwall’s sunshine was always blotted out by something, or else so intense it burned. Here, at the Bone Pit, it was filtered to a bloody red through the blackened clouds. 

Carver steadied his sword grip in his hands, moving carefully, and he felt rather than saw Sidonie stepping up beside him. There was the sound of creaking leather from her gloves about her staff.

And then the wind, sharp and sudden, and from above.

The dragon burst from the crevasses of the mine, swinging down onto the earth before them, and roared, flames spewing forth and catching the battered foliage alight nearby. The heat of it made him break into a sweat.

“Here we go!” Sidonie called, and moved. 

It was a tactic he recognized, her running. She took the left and he the right, and the circled in about the creature, leaving Varric and Fenris to fend for themselves for the time being. He felt the heat of fire again, but this was Sidonie’s fire, not the dragons, and then the air shook with her force magic. 

It felt like her, that magic that hung in the air. He would recognize it anywhere, fierce and determined, her distinct flavor like a signature or a fingerprint. He wheeled in, skidding into position across the loose stone, and kicking up a cloud of dust. And then he swung.

The dragon was nothing like the others. Great wings towered over him, and its leg was as thick as a tree trunk, but still he managed to sink his metal greatsword blade into the creature’s scales, draw blood. He felt it splatter across his face, hot and corrosive, and winced. 

The dragon spun, knocking him back, and he grunted at the impact, felt sharp talons break the skin, and then force was shoving him backwards, out of reach, and Fenris’s strange flitting movements – like the lyrium in his skin was carrying him across the battlefield as fast as light – filled in the space where he had been. Carver hauled himself up and went for the tail. 

He could see Varric shouting something, but could not hear. He focused on the wound he had made, the cut in the creature’s leg. Bring the leg down and they could bring it down, assuming he stopped it flying. 

As if reading his thoughts, Sidonie’s magic tore through the air again. He recognized it as the spell that forced its way through and around, and it twisted across one wing, tearing across the membrane of the wing. Varric’s bolts peppered the other with holds, and the dragon twisted, wheeling on Sidonie.

In Carver’s eyes it was like seeing the ogre turn on Bethany all over again. He panicked. He moved. 

Before he knew it he was striking at the creature’s neck, thick sinews and muscle twisting under his onslaught. The dragon reared, whirled on him, knocked Sidonie away with its leg, and beared its massive fangs over Carver. 

“Junior, get back!” he heard from Varric. Instead, he stepped forward. He brought his sword blade round. 

“I won’t lose!” he cried, more for himself, and then the dragon’s maw descending down upon him.

For a moment he thought it was over. But then he realized that the creatures jaws were being held open by Sidonie, who had joined him there in the path of the attack. Force erupted outward, holding the creatures mouth ajar, and she turned to him, giving him a sharp shove.

“Move!” She rolled clear herself just in time as the spell failed, and he saw her rise weakly, like it had cost her a great deal to do it. Sidonie had used too much magic in the last few days, more than she had in years all at once. He had witnessed her attack at the mansion the night before, where she had seemed to almost glow with the light from Fenris, and knew that had really overdone it. Sidonie was exhausted. 

He spun up as the dragon flailed, slammed his foot down onto its nose to pin it. The creature inhaled, sharp and fast, and the air filled with scent of fire, and he knew in moments he would be aflame. He acted fast.

His sword came down, spearing the creature through the eye and causing it to howl in pain. And he was too late to stop the fire. He closed his eyes, resigned himself to die, even as Varric cried out “Junior!” and Sidonie screamed.

And then he was simply no longer there by the dragon, and his ribs were bruised, and he sat up blinking to see Fenris, markings flickering blue, standing over him with his sword in hand, watching the dragon flail its final death throes.

Sidonie came running to his side, eyes wide, but when she saw he was mostly unharmed her face was like thunder.

“Carver, Maker take you! I _swear_ \- !”

“Sister!” His voice cracked like a whip, and he regretted it when he saw the fear in her eyes. “I’m alright.”

“You’re welcome,” Fenris said in his usual low, drab tone, and then wandered off towards the dragon. Sidonie stared a moment after him, then back down to Carver.

“Maker, he saved your life,” she said, shocked. Carver simply grunted and hauled himself up to a sitting position, wincing at the state of his ribs. Saved his life, sure, but probably cracked something in the process at the impact. Sidonie recognized his wince of pain and glared him down. “This is why I’ve told you you need better armor,” she said simply, but since that was entirely out of question – he was never going to actually own his own armor – he simply let it slide. The leather mercenary padded clothes was the best he could do for now, and even that was mostly meaningless up close.

Fenris was bending over the dragon now, Varric at his side, working something loose from its jaw. 

“What are you doing?” Sidonie called, turning her attention to them as Carver caught her hand to pull himself to his feet. 

“Dragon Fangs,” Fenris replied simply. Varric was the one who had to explain.

“They’re valuable, of course. Some sod mixing potions for the masses will pay a fortune for them. Scales too.” 

“I am not,” Sidonie said simply, “hauling an entire dragon back to Kirkwall with me.” But she conceded that it was quite a smart idea to take some of it along and see if they might get something for all their trouble after all. The slimy Orlesian git who had hired them appeared less than likely to actually pay them for the job in anything worthwhile. In Orlais, it was probably an honor to be paid in nonsense like gratitude or goodwill or respectability. None of those put food on his table. 

He touched a hand to his ribs again with a wince. He would need to take a closer look at them later.

“Hawke, you are aware we just slayed a dragon, right?” Varric said a little incredulously. Sidonie just gave a small smirk, shrugging it off. 

“Yes, but it isn’t a big one, is it?” In fact, it was smaller than he had thought a dragon would be. But that was beside the point.

“So it’s not a High Dragon. I’m sorry,” he snapped. “Wouldn’t want to sound ungrateful. Shall we see if they’ll take it back and send a bigger one?” And then he stalked off in a huff, letting himself pick a route back down from the ledge and out towards the mining encampment and the road to Kirkwall. He could almost hear Sidonie shaking her head at him, but realized that she was probably too preoccupied filling her pockets with dragon scales to care.

It was after midday by the time they reached the city. Fenris had been an intimidating sort of silent on the way back, something Carver was not used to, but they time they finally climbed the last of the Hightown steps to report to Hubert, Carver had the feeling he was obligated to say something.

“Thanks,” he conceded, and Fenris simply raised an eyebrow, his hand clutching tight to a satchel of dragon parts. “You know. For back there.”

“You saved my life,” Fenris said simply. “I simply returned the favor.” He turned for the steps towards the Chantry Square the estates beyond, and Varric and Sidonie looked after him, Sidonie's eyes narrowing. 

“Don’t you want your part of the - ?”

“Keep it,” Fenris replied, holding up the satchel of dragon parts, and then disappeared around the corner. Sidonie blinked then glanced to Carver like it was his fault.

“What did you do?” she asked, and he gave her a scowl. She sighed, then perked up as Hubert caught sight of them and made his way over and the time for discussion was done.

“Ah!” the Orlesian said, clapping his hands together as he approached and examining their cuts and bruises. Sidonie had one on her cheek that was trickling blood she kept smearing when she swiped at it with the back of her hand. Varric was the only one in one piece, and that because he had not actually gotten anywhere near any of the dragons. 

“So!” he cried in his thick accent, sweating in orange silk under the Kirkwall sun – it was sharper in the city, and the midday heat had made it particularly difficult to bear, even now when it should be the height of winter. “What happened? One of the miners told me you rescued him from dragons!” He gave a laugh. “I cuffed him for lying!” Carver felt a wash of disgust, and Sidonie, picking at the blade of her staff, simply gritted her teeth.

“Well he wasn’t,” she said frankly. Watching Hubert’s face slip from amusement to disbelief to alarm was gratifying enough Carver would have walked away then if it had not been for the money. 

“Go there and see the corpses for yourself,” he suggested grimly, and Sidonie nodded. Hubert put up his hands.

“But…I thought they were extinct?” he stammered, and then recovered as best he could, his dark eyes narrowing. “I believe _you_. You made them extinct again?” Then he smiled a little. “If it is safe,” he added under his stubble goatee, “the miners can return to work.” 

“I bet their first task will be cleaning up the entrails the last shift left behind,” Sidonie said darkly. Hubert missed the sarcasm and simply nodded in a way that made Carver sigh.

“A dragon killer and a mind reader,” the Orlesian smiled. “Wonderful. Let us discuss your payment then.” He turned away a little, making for the shade under some of the red Hightown awnings. Sidonie and Carver followed, while Varric loitered beside Hubert’s shop with a disinterested look for them to finish their negotiations. “Since you did so much more than I was expecting,” Hubert offered, “how about we work together.” Carver balked.

“Work together?” he snapped, staring at Sidonie to make sure he had heard it properly. “With _him_?!” The greasy man was in it for the money alone. 

But then so, it seemed, were they. Even so he was taken aback when Sidonie ignored him and instead crossed her arms to ponder.

“I am offering a fifty-fifty share in the mine,” Hubert insisted. “You will make us both rich if you can keep your countrymen safe.” 

Varric gave a low whistle by the stall, eavesdropping after all. Sidonie finally paused in her tracks, turned abruptly to Hubert, and held out a hand to seal the deal.

“Seems like the miners _could_ use protection, _and_ an advocate,” she said simply, and her eyes were cool. “I want this in writing.” 

“Of course,” Hubert said simply. “Now, to our first order of business: we replace the lost workers. I will hire new hands. Plenty of desperate Fereldans out there.” Sidonie’s lips pursed a little, and Carver shifted to cross his arms as well. Hubert missed their response and carried on anyway. “I need you to convince the surviving miners to return.” 

Sidonie nodded, then turned away, motioning to Varric.

“Where do you think they’ll be?” she asked the dwarf. It was Carver who answered.

“The Hanged Man, of course. Where else?” He rubbed at his bruised ribs a little, and Sidonie nodded.

“Well then,” she replied simply, “I say it is time for a drink.” 

***

Maker, it had gotten to the point where the ale in the Hanged Man had stopped tasting like anything. After discovering the miners drinking away their sorrows in the common room, the miner they had encountered at the Bone Pit had quickly shared the news of the dragons and before long the entire place was buzzing. Sidonie had assured them they could return to work, under her protection, and then found herself being swallowed up by the awe and entertainment that was a genuine hero story in Kirkwall of all places. Now Sidonie wavered a little as Varric went off on yet another retelling of their apparently epic battle with the dragon. Across the room, Norah the barmaid was flirting with Carver in a way so false and obvious it made Sidonie giggle to witness. 

Someone bumped into her, slurring some expression of astonishment and amazement that it was her, and she laughed along with them, sipped at her drink, and then stepped out of the way to avoid them some more. Carver gave a sharp hiss as she drew close, chasing away Norah with her approach. One of his hands was clasped to his injured rib.

“What was _that_ for?!” he hissed at her, but then grimaced, turning a little pale as he tried to rise. She sighed, bending to haul him up. He was bigger, sure, but she looped his arm over her shoulders regardless, leaving her ale on the table.

Varric broke from his attentive audience to make a path for them, chuckling as he helped her get Carver up the stairs and into some breathing room. His chambers, full of dwarven furniture and artifacts, was the destination. Sidonie hauled Carver towards the stone chair sitting at Varric’s table, and settled Carver in it before bending to check his ribs. He gave a muffled grunt as she prodded about at them, then gritted his teeth in pain and tried to swat her away. Sidonie rose, shaking her head.

“Was that from earlier?”

“That crazy elf, when he saved me,” Carver muttered. “I’ll be fine, leave it be, Sidonie.” Sidonie gave him a pointed look.

“You’d better be. I don’t even know where we would find a doctor in our budget.” Varric, finally managing to get everyone back from his chamber doors and closing them behind him to keep them out, looked over to them.

“You might try with Lirene. I hear there’s a doctor in the area who has been tending refugees for free.” Sidonie looked dubious.

“For free? Is this a quack?” Varric shrugged.

“Only one way to find out,” he said simply. Then he drew back from the door, crossing to prop himself against his table. “Anyway, while it’s a bit quieter, there was something I wanted to discuss, regarding the expedition.” Sidonie narrowed her gaze, but it was Carver who went on guard.

“What are you keeping from us?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Varric said, raising his hands in a display of innocence and shaking his head, and after a moment of letting that sink in, he finally sighed. “So, here’s the thing: we need to find a way _into_ the Deep Roads. Bartrand can lead us to the right place once we’re down there, but we need a good entrance.” Sidonie propped her firsts on her hips, feeling the slight hum from all the ale, and shook her head.

“Do we have a bad entrance?” she asked before she realized she had said it. “Any entrance would do wouldn’t it? Well, unless a dragon’s sitting in it, I suppose.” For some reason that was really funny in her head, and a snort escaped her. Carver groaned. A slight smirk twisted Varric’s lips.

“We need an entrance that’s close to our destination, but isn’t already plundered or filled with darkspawn,” he clarified. “Fortunately, I’ve received some new information. There’s a Grey Warden in the city. If anyone knows how to get down there, it will be him.” Sidonie, suddenly very distracted by some of the Bone Pit dust that had settled on his leather jacket, reached to brush him down.

“Sounds like you have it all planned out, Varric,” she said simply, and he stood still while she brushed his coat off before nodding graciously for her help. _Maker bless, he’s accommodating the drunk,_ she thought, and giggled at herself before she could help it. Maker, how much had she _had_?! She drew back and turned her back, crossing her arms and glancing up towards the ceiling, which she noticed was really quite high up, all said and done. 

“And that, Messere, is why I am here,” Varric said simply, and she glanced back to catch him sweeping her a slight bow. 

“I met some Grey Wardens once. They’re King and Queen of Ferelden now, I hear,” she told him musingly. 

“That’s hardly a help to us, is it?” Carver shot back in his usual bitter tone. She smiled.

“Do shut up, _Lord_ Carver.” He glared. Varric shifted between them with a practiced ease and glanced between them.

“Supposedly,” he said, steering them back on course, “this Grey Warden came in with some other Fereldan refugees not long ago. We talk to Lirene, maybe we learn where he is, and we can find the doctor for Little Hawke here in the process.” Sidonie glanced to Carver who snarled in response. And then she grinned.

“Right. To Lirene then?” She knew the name of course. They had shopped there before themselves earlier that week. Varric managed to delay her immediate action, however, with a bit of common sense. 

“Hold your horses, Hawke. There is time yet,” Varric assured her. “Let’s make sure your brother will be alright first. I’ll get Norah to bring some bandages. The least we can do is bind it up until we know how bad the damage is.” So Sidonie meandered around Varric’s chambers, examining dwarven knick-knacks and an impressive dagger collection until he returned with a roll of bandages supplied by the tavern owner. Then she helped Varric strip Carver to the waist and slowly wind the supportive bandages about his torso while her brother whimpered and whined like he was dying and generally made a big melodramatic fuss. It took long enough that by the time it was done, she was feeling a little more herself, regretting her choices drinking as much as she had, and was fairly certain he did need a doctor, preferably _before_ their mother found out. 

So they made their way back through the throng, which cheered at Carver’s war wounds good-naturedly and made way for the three of them. Standing near the bar, looking a little out of his element, was Fenris, who caught her eye.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said simply, falling into step and holding out a small purse for her. “From the fangs and scales.” She took it, feeling it was heavier than she had first assumed, and blinked at him. She had not expected him to turn a profit on them quite so quickly, nor to share in the spoils since he had wanted nothing for himself from Hubert.

“Where did you sell them?” she asked him, hefting the purse.

“The Gallows.” She felt a trickle of fear, but his look betrayed nothing. “There is a potion shop there which required rare ingredients, and I was informed they would give me the best price.” 

“Well,” Sidonie said simply, “thanks.” She tucked the purse away into her

“It is nothing.” He switched to her other side to consider Carver, who shook his head.

“Oh no. Stay back. Dangerous, you are,” Carver said quickly, putting some space between them. “Until I see a doctor and make sure my ribs aren’t properly cracked, you’re staying at arms length.” Fenris looked decidedly unimpressed.

“Is that where you are going now?” he asked, turning his deep forest eyes on Sidonie. She nodded glumly. 

“With luck. And we’re also looking for Grey Wardens.” Fenris seemed to contemplate this a moment, then nodded.

“Then I shall come with you,” he decided emphatically. Varric, helping hold up Carver's other side, gave a low chuckle and the announcement.

“Admit it, Broody,” Varric said with a knowing grin. “You were bored.” 

“My reasons do not matter,” Fenris said simply, quicker than expected on the retort. “And I don’t brood.” Varric grinned.

“Sure.” Fenris shook his head.

“All I know,” Carver interjected with a grimace, “is that he has a mean right hook. You’re very different from other elves.” Sidonie shot him a look, and Fenris raised an eyebrow unimpressed as he held the door open for them.

“Oh? You know them all?” he suggested pointedly. He watched them make their way through before letting the door swing shut in their wake. 

“No, I just…you look different. There’s no denying that,” Carver tried to correct. It did not help.

“It is what I am,” Fenris stated sharply, eyeing up Carver’s side. “And unlike the problems you claim to have, I really did have no choice.” Carver sighed as Sidonie tugged a little at her ponytail, wondering if she should intervene.

“Do we know anyone who isn’t brooding every hour of the day?” Carver muttered. 

“Like attracts like, it seems,” Fenris said curtly. Sidonie smiled a little at that.

“He’s right though. You are quite different from other elves, at least those round here. Makes you stand out,” Varric said, as if it was likely to help. He had released Carver, leaving him in Sidonie's care alone as he crossed the carved stone streets between the tall, grubby buildings. He led the way down the steps towards the Bazaar in the direction of Lirene's shop like he had made the journey a thousand times.

“And you,” Fenris said, turning on him to reply. “I thought all dwarves had beards. Where’s yours?” Varric gave a snort, shaking his head at the baiting while Sidonie helped a wincing Carver down the last steps.

“I misplaced it," Varric said, "pointing with his head towards the other steps and a small, grubby shop stashed into the corner of the market for Fenris's benefit. “Along with my sense of dwarven pride and my gold-plated noble caste pin.”

“I thought maybe it fell onto your chest,” Fenris replied as dead-pan as ever, taking the steps two at a time ahead of them. Varric chuckled a little again.

“Oh—ho! The broody elf tells a joke!”

“I don’t brood,” Fenris said again, crossing his arms and watching as Sidonie and Carver slowly climbed the steps on the other side of the armory market. Varric gave him a wry look.

“Friend, if your brooding were any more impressive, women would swoon as you passed. They’d have broody babies in your honor.” Fenris looked a little put out, and considering he seemed quite angry all the time it was amazing Sidonie could see the difference in him. 

“You’re a very odd dwarf,” he muttered, reaching for the door to Lirene’s shop as Carver and Sidonie made the last step. 

“And you thought I was joking about the pin,” Varric replied before passing through into the dim interior. Fenris held the door for Carver and Sidonie as well and Sidonie gave a quiet sigh.

 _Maybe he isn’t so bad after all. I’m only nervous because I don’t know him and he is nervous about me,_ she caught herself thinking, and nodded. It fit. She was willing to let that fly.

The shop was crowded with people calling for aid like usual. Simple wooden tables and counters lined the place, and a few empty crates bearing what had once been goods now donated for refugee use were clear. Through into the back room, Sidonie could see the ramshackle cots and bunk beds not far from the one at Gamlen’s in the Old Slums where refugees were being sheltered. She wondered how long the establishment had actually been there assisting refugees, and whether Lirene predated the Blight in that little shop. She had never thought to ask. 

The donation box sat near the door. Feeling generous under the circumstances, she dropped a few of the silvers from the pouch Fenris had given her into the box to match those she had given away on their last visit, and then muscled her way through the crowd of refugees towards the front. 

Lirene was a tired, black-haired woman in simple clothes and an apron who seemed world-weary and drawn, but there was a sharp light in her brown eyes that said she was there to serve, and at Sidonie’s approach, she was busy trying to regain control of the rabble.

“Will everyone _please_ just step back!” she called.

“My mother’s in labor!” a girl called nearby. “The baby’s come early! Can anyone help her?” 

“I’ll send word to the healer,” Lirene said, and Carver was listening intently near the door, “but – ”

“My son’s hurt bad!” another man declared. “Cart overturned on him in the blasted Bone Pit!” Sidonie glanced to see if she might see who had spoken, since she now had a stake in that mine, but could not make out who it was. _Well at least he wasn’t eaten by a dragon,_ she thought grimly, and felt dirty for thinking it at all. Lirene sighed.

“Everyone in your turn,” she insisted. “I promise, we have donations coming in.” She looked then to Sidonie with a pointed look, her voice quieter but no less firm. If there was recognition, she didn't show it. Sidonie might know Lirene, but Lirene did not know Sidonie. “If you’re seeking aid, leave your name with my girl. We serve everyone here. No one came from Ferelden without trouble, but I can’t give priority to anyone who’s already found work and lodging. If you’ve coin to spare, we won’t turn it down. Donations go in the box up front.” It had the sound of something she said a great deal. Sidonie had already given to the cause anyway, so she shook her head.

“I hear you know where I can find a Fereldan Grey Warden,” she said. Lirene was immediately guarded. 

“Only Fereldan Grey Warden I’ve heard of is sitting on the throne,” she said quickly, maybe a little too quickly. “We’re out of the Blight’s path now. Why would you need a Warden?” It was clear she was testing the waters. Sidonie recognized the wariness. The young girl whose mother was in labor shuffled in beside her, voice eager.

“The healer was one of them, wasn’t he?” she asked loudly. “A Warden.” Lirene sighed, uncrossing her arms.

“Well, he’s not now,” she said sharply. “And busy enough without answering fool questions about it.” Sidonie glanced back to Varric, who seemed as interested as she at their turn of luck. Two birds with one stone indeed. She gave Lirene her most dazzling smile.

“Then I’ll only ask very _smart_ questions,” she offered. Lirene shook her her, irritated.

“I do not joke, Serrah,” she snapped. “You see what our people face in Kirkwall. They have no jobs, no homes. Most can barely buy bread.” Oh, yes, Sidonie knew. “This healer…he serves them without thought for coin. He’s closed their wounds, delivered their children.” Something in Lirene hardened. “He’s a _good_ man. I won’t lose him to the blighted Templars.”

Ah. So that was it. Sidonie eased. An apostate. Not a quack doctor at all, but a bone fide healer using magic and everything. They were rare on the ground. Part of her wondered if he was Fereldan himself. He must be, to be so particular and generous with his services. But she was certain that Lady – sorry, Queen – Eideann had said there were only the two of them in all of Ferelden to fight the Blight. Had the damn woman recruited more then? 

She wet her lips. 

“Tell me has a pair of killer eyes and nice smile, and I’ll marry him in an instant,” she offered, and that earned a little smile from Lirene then. The barriers came down.

“As it happens,” she said softly, “he’s got the eyes, but I’ve never seen him smile. I suppose it isn’t my secret to keep, where to find him. Anders has certainly been free enough with his services.” Was this a man or a nation? Anders… Lirene shrugged. “Refugees in Darktown know to find the healer look for the lit lantern. If you have need enough, Anders will be within.” Sidonie thanked her quietly, then drew back through the crowd.

“Did you find him?” Carver asked, since he had not heard the end of the conversation from the door.

“To Darktown we go,” Sidonie said simply. Carver grimaced. 

“Wonderful. Another sewer trek.” Sidonie just gave a small smile.

“Come on. It will be fun.” They slipped back out through the din into the brightly lit bazaar, which stank of fish freshly caught from the docks. Sidonie stepped out of the doorway, trying to find a gap in the milling crowd to slide through, when she felt someone grip her shoulder and turn her roughly about and shove her up against the bazaar wall. The stone at her back was warm from the sun, and felt as solid as anything. Trapped. 

It was a man, silver hair and cold eyes betraying a lifetime of troubles. At his back were several crudely armed men. Sidonie froze. 

“We heard you in there, asking about the healer,” he hissed in her face. The men at his back shifted, one of them with a knife pulled on Varric. “We know what happens to mages in this town, and it _ain’t_ gonna happen to him!” For the briefest of moments, Sidonie thought she was going to have to use some magic to prove a point, and in so doing blow her own cover. And then Carver was reacting.

“You want him safe?” he spat, keeping his voice low. “Don’t pick fights with other Fereldans while the Templars are after us all!” It was a smart move really, and one she got the sudden feeling Carver had been forced to employ before. The man hurriedly released her, backing up and staring between them.

“Fereldan?” he exclaimed. “But you…your clothes?” Ah, the Red Iron uniforms. “I figured you for a Kirkwaller, sorry.” Sidonie shook her head, as the man ducked his own. “Maker bless the rule of our King Alistair.” Sidonie raised an eyebrow. All she remembered of King Alistair was that he was very good at following Queen Eideann’s lead, and had been very quiet and somber in the moments she had met him in Lothering. The other men had backed up too, and Sidonie gave them a final glance before pushing her way into the Bazaar crowd and heading for the nearest Darktown entrance – a sewer outlet down near the foundries. 

“Are you alright?” Carver asked, drawing up close to her. She realized she was shaking a little. That had been close, in fact among one of the only times in living memory someone had confronted her on being a mage. She swallowed and gave him a firm nod.

“Yes,” she told him, and sounded like she was convincing herself. “It’s…clear that they love him.” Carver sighed, looking away.

“Maybe there’s more help for mages here than we thought,” he offered, but he sounded grim and skeptical. 

***

The letter was burning a hole in his pocket. He forced his mind away from it, forced himself to think instead on the task at hand. A boy lay on the wooden table before him, the victim of a cart accident at one of the nearby mines, his parents standing over the bodies with frightened looks. 

Anders settled his thoughts, focused in across the Veil, reaching for the spirits that could help him heal the boy. It was hard work, beckoning them, though if he was honest it was easier now than it ever had been before in his life. The second half of him beckoned within the Fade now, drew the attention of curious Spirits of Compassion, some mere wisps, others complex and delicate. He reached for their help, and they reached back.

Blue healing light formed in his hands. He held them out over the boy, focusing on all the ways he was injured and step by step trying to make them mend, to form in his mind the images needed to knit together flesh and bone, staunch bleeding, and soothe the pain. The boy groaned beneath him, and Anders tried harder, but half of his mind was still elsewhere. 

It had been only two weeks since his arrival in Kirkwall, barely a small skip across the Waking Sea, a matter of only a few days’ journey. He had gone in the night before anyone could stop him, disappearing with his Warden garb and booking passage under the guise of Warden business. He had promptly spent the rest of his money on more civilian attire and ended up with a fur-lined coat with large ringed buckles and down-filled quilting and a pair of warm woolen leggings. The Grey Warden light silk tabard he kept, since the seas were cold and it was plain enough to be worn under the coat. His Warden boots he kept as well. Shoes were expensive and they, at least, had always served him well. The rest he folded up into his bag, stolen from a stand as he boarded the ship, and that was his new life.

Kirkwall had not been as he expected. He had slipped from the ship to find the place still reeling from the refugee crisis, though recent events had lessened the bleed of people from Ferelden’s shores to the Free Marches somewhat. Anders had managed to gain entrance by using his Warden title again, but it had been a near thing. After that, he had made it a point to disappear.

He quickly found out by word of mouth that the situation in the city was as bad as outside if not worse. He had fallen into Lirene’s lap unexpectedly when he had been pointed towards her door by another of the refugees, and it was she, with some Coterie contacts, that had helped establish the clinic. Her cousin worked as a maidservant in the Gallows, and she would be able to get message in to Karl, but she would do it in exchange for his help, and he had readily agreed. These people needed his help, and the message he carried within him now was one he had always clung to.

 _I am a healer._ The boy began to stir, the final preparations done. He lessened the magic a little, controlling it until the job was done. 

He was scared out of his mind he would be caught out. He planned only to stay as long as he could to help Karl, and after that he would vanish again. Kirkwall was no place for an apostate. He was worried as well that even in spite of her words promising he would be able to leave when he wished, Eideann may yet send people after him over Rolan’s death. For all she had supported him, helped him in destroying his phylactery and finding a new way forward, she was still the Queen of Ferelden, and Warden-Commander too, and obligated to respond to his crimes. It was especially true now, with her fiancé and king an ex-Templar. He had powerful enemies if he ever tried to go back, and it was he who had forced that hand.

But then again, his hand had also been forced. Justice had needed the assistance, and he needed to find Karl.

He thought then with a pang of shame and heated hurt of Nathaniel, left sleeping in his bed, curled up with his cat amidst the blankets. A single night, after months of dancing around one another, the strangest courtship he thought he had ever been in. He felt guilty about it, and he missed it, but he had been forced to act. He had had no choice. Nathaniel had to understand that. Nathaniel…

Well it was too late now anyway. 

He finally saw the boy’s eyes blink open, and did a final check before allowing the magic to fade away and the spirits to scatter back from the Veil. He took a step back as the boy’s mother, tears of joy in her eyes, swept towards her son, who rose into her arms. The father reached to put a hand on his shoulder as he staggered a little, feeling suddenly weak.

It was always like this now, ever since…

Well, having a spirit living within you was bound to change a few things. Justice was a flickering presence a moment, and Anders nodded to the boy’s father before drawing back to lean a little against the wall and collect his staff. It was the same dragon-headed one he had been given in Amaranthine, the blade over the hand and the light morning star end for close combat if need be. He felt it smooth under his fingers and closed his eyes.

And then something shifted, an awareness. He was not sure where it came from, or what it was. Justice was the cause, an alarm, a sudden warning.

 _Lyrium._ Anders gripped his staff tight, swinging it about, expecting Templars, and whipped around in time to catch sight of a woman with oxblood eyes entering his clinic instead. At her back was a man with the same pitch-black hair she had, a solemn looking elf in a long black coat bristling with armored spikes, and a dwarf that looked like he’d be more at home in a tavern. 

The woman gazed at him coolly, and that was when he felt the spirits across the Veil following her. Valor. Love. He paused. She was a mage.

The lyrium Justice sensed was coming from the elf. He stared a moment at him, confused, until he made sense of the markings peeking out of his coat at his neck. And then he realized what it was he was looking at. Justice protested, but Anders tore his gaze away, confused. He put up his hand.

“I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation,” he said, and heard a little of Justice in his voice which unnerved him. He still was not used to the idea. “Why do you threaten it.” The mage before him narrowed her eyes, hearing the odd tone perhaps? And then, carefully, she loosely curled her hands into fists and held them up at shoulder height. To anyone else, it may have appeared strange, but Anders was a Circle Mage, and he knew the sign. Peace. Spells needed direction. Hands raised as they were, she was in no fit state to cast one in a hurry. It was a surrender of sorts. He lowered his hand and she lowered her own carefully, an uneasy truce between them. And then she took a step in. 

He wondered which Circle she had come from, and how she had come to arrive in Kirkwall of all places. She simply wet her lips.

“I want to know about the Deep Roads,” she said, her accent Ferelden. The words were sudden, and they hit him like a blow. Images of Kal’Hirol, of Nathaniel lying prone in the center, or nights spent sleeping amidst Broodmother filth, of the Children and their horrible Mother, and the Architect, and being trapped in all swam back, threatening to drown him. Justice responded too, a presence that panicked within him, like another part of his mind responding. Anders gritted his teeth.

“Did the Wardens send you to bring me back?” he asked. He knew that Eideann would attempt to recruit more mages. It was not inconceivable that she had been sent from one of the other Circles to fill the space he had left. But then, the accent was not explained if she was from outside Ferelden, and he had never seen her at Kinloch Hold. “I’m not going,” he added for good measure. The woman simply raised an eyebrow, then shook her head.

“So you’ve come to Kirkwall just to escape the Wardens?” she asked quietly, and he sighed, setting aside his staff again. 

“You say that like it’s a small thing,” he told her, but decided for the moment it was fair enough cover. “Yes, I’m here because there’s no Warden outpost, no darkspawn, and a whole host of refugees to blend in with, and some reasons of my own.” That much was the truth. Eideann might still try to find him, but he doubted she would be successful with so many others fleeing northward to the Free Marches. It gave him the story he needed to hide his intentions about Karl too.

Maker, that was another thing altogether.

“I’ve always heard that joining the Wardens is for life,” the woman said simply. He pursed his lips. She seemed better informed than most, then, so he graced her with an answer. There was no harm in it. She seemed to be a refugee too.

“That’s only partly true,” he assured her. “The ‘hopelessly tainted by the darkspawn’ and ‘plagued by nightmares about the Archdemon’ parts don’t go away. But it turns out if you hide well, you don’t have to wear the uniform or go to the parties.” She sighed.

“Right,” she said. Then she grimaced. “Well, I’m part of an expedition headed into the Deep Roads. Any information you have could save people’s lives.” He almost let out a groan. Instead he shook his head.

“I will die a happy man if I never have to think about the Blighted Deep Roads again,” he said, crossing his arms. “You can’t imagine what I’ve come through to get here.” 

“We fled Lothering. We saw the Blight. Carver was at Ostagar when King Cailan fell,” the woman said shortly. That drew him up short. He considered her then, really honestly looked. He saw the weariness on her face. “Also, if you won’t help us,” she added quietly, “at least take a look at Carver’s ribs? We fought a dragon this morning.” Maker, it was like Eideann bloody Cousland all over again, fighting dragons and then talking like it was nothing but a mild wander off the designated trail to be smoothly and easily corrected. 

He felt a little ill, at the same time somewhat fascinated. The blunt statement resonated with Justice too, who quieted a moment, and for the briefest of windows, he felt calm, certain. He sniffed, then beckoned for Carver – the big man with the black hair – to come forward.

“Ostagar,” he said quietly. “You were a soldier, then?” Carver winced as they worked him out of his jacket.

“Yes,” he said curtly. “What of it.”

“Why are you going back to face darkspawn after witnessing that? Aren’t you worried something will happen?” Carver gave him a strange look. 

“Weren’t you?” Of course. And he went anyway, because Eideann had asked him to, to save people. He was fighting to protect people he cared for in the end, like Nathaniel Howe. 

Ah. So that was it. Refugees on a final leg. He sighed, testing Carver’s ribs gently and finding them in need of better care than they had gotten. Maker’s blood, fighting a dragon. Nothing ever changed. He reached again for the spirits of compassion, and they responded, and he began his work, even though he was tired. 

“A favor for a favor,” he said quietly as he worked. “Does that sound like a fair deal? You help me, I’ll help you?” He needed all the help he could get. He had sent his letter to Karl through Lirene, and managed to get a response back. Karl had arranged to meet him two nights from then in the Chantry. And it was there they would make their escape.

He could not do it alone. 

Karl was a gifted mage. He was perhaps the foremost lecturer on Entropy Magics that Kinloch Hold had seen in years. He was older than Anders, and Anders himself did not have much skill for Entropy, and yet he had insisted on studying it. Entropy, Karl had once told him, was important for Spirit Healer to know more than any other school outside their own. It dealt with the ailments of the mind. Horrors, nightmares, the forces of chaos, sleep spells, and fear. They were dark forces to play with, and ones healers needed to understand. 

Anders understood them well enough now. A year in solitary confinement had let him live their natural counterparts. He forced the reminder away, pursing his lips. 

During that year, Karl had been sent to the Kirkwall Circle at the Gallows. His final letter had scared Anders. A promise that he had never forsaken him, a plea for help.

But Anders could not help Karl flee alone. No, he needed help, and who better than a woman who had seemingly fled the Circle at some point just like him?

She was watching him – he had yet to learn her name – with wary eyes.

“Let’s be more specific,” she finally said, weighing the options. “I don’t do anything involving children or animals.” He grinned, shaking his head, then his smile slipped.

“I have a Warden map of the depths in this area,” he said. He had taken it from Soldier’s Peak during their stay in case it might prove handy in the battle against the Broodmother, but had never used it. It was mainly the areas around old Kal’Hirol, but it extended in some areas north into the Free Marches. While it was anything but complete, it was enough for what this woman and her strange companions wanted. “But there’s a price.”

He carefully finished his spell on Carver’s ribs and drew back. Carver tested it out by twisting, then winced a little. Anders gave him a flat look. “You’re also advised to rest at least until the morning so that can properly heal,” he added quietly, but to be honest by now he was used to losing the battle over people following his orders. Eideann had never once done as he advised in terms of her own health, and neither had Nathaniel. 

Carver, however, just rose gingerly, and gave a nod, which was a surprise. The woman – his sister? – sighed.

“Go on,” she said, and Anders turned to face her.

“I came to Kirkwall to aid a friend,” he explained. “A mage. A prisoner in the wretched Gallows. The Templars learned of my plans to free him.” The woman’s eyes narrowed.

“Help me bring him safely past them, and you shall your map,” Anders said, stating the offer plainly. _Help and I help you._

_HELP ME GIVE JUSTICE._ Anders pushed the thought down, away grimacing. 

The woman looked away, peering into the distance. 

“Tell me about your friend,” she finally said quietly. He let out a sigh of relief. She was willing to hear him out.

“His name is Karl Thekla. He was sent here from Ferelden when Kirkwall’s Circle required new talent.” There was a ring of disgust in his voice he could not hide. “His last letter said the knight-commander was turning the Circle into a prison. Mages are locked in their cells, refused appearances at court, made Tranquil for the slightest crimes. I told him I would come.” She looked worried.

“Are these accusations true?” she asked softly. He forced her to meet his eyes, the oxblood shining and pretty, but cool now as she considered his words.

“Ask any mage in Kirkwall. Over a dozen were made Tranquil just this year,” he said in reply. “The more people you ask, the worse the rumors become.” She gave a soft, nervous laugh.

“Such is the way with rumors, though,” she said, like she was trying to avoid thinking much more on it. Anders felt a flicker of irritation. She sighed. “How do you actually plan to break him out the Gallows?” He gave her a flat look, then glanced to her friends. The dwarf was scowling in the corner a little, and the elf was listening with his face turned away. Carver, the one he had healed, had his arms crossed and refused to look at him either. He looked back to the woman.

“I’m hoping it won’t come to that,” he replied softly. “I sent Karl a message to meet me in the Chantry two days from now. Maker willing, he’ll be there, alone. But if there are Templars with him, I swear I’ll free him from them. Whatever the cost.” Her eyes flickered a little.

“You want me to fight the Templars?” she said, and her voice was incredulous. “Is that all?” She looked away, throwing up her hands. “I might just take my chances with the darkspawn.” He felt a flicker of anger. 

Surely she should understand. Surely she was as angry as he was about the situation. Surely she should want to help any mage achieve what she herself had done. 

And then it hit him. He realized. 

“You’re an apostate,” he said quietly, choosing the weighted term as it was one she would recognize. She nodded.

“As are you.”

“No, I mean…you’ve _never_ been in a Circle.” She was quiet in reply. He let out a slow breath to keep himself calm. He did not need Justice coming out now. “You’re a hedge mage.” She pursed her lips.

“I like shrubbery as much as the next person, but I don’t see what weight this has on the topic at hand,” she said sharply. Beside her, Carver’s eyes were cold. “You cannot seriously be asking me to fight Templars.” 

“If we fight the Templars,” he said coldly, clenching his hand into a fist, “it is because they decide that anyone who befriends a mage deserves death without questioning.” Maker, even Queen Eideann had stood against them, and even she had born their scorn. If the non-mage Queen of a country could see, surely this woman, this…Fereldan apostate from Lothering…

“Doesn’t fighting them prove their point?” Carver said sharply. “They don’t need more reason to hunt us.” The woman looked uncomfortable then, and she crossed her arms. Anders shook his head.

“These are my terms,” he said firmly. “If you want my aid with your expedition, meet me in the Chantry in two days. Maker willing, we will all leave free men.” The woman simply scowled a little.

“I don’t imagine breaking and entering the Maker’s house is a good way to earn his favor,” she quipped and then sighed. “I will think on it.” 

That was about the best he was going to get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ABOUT ANDERS'S TIMELINE, KARL, AND CIRCLE RELATIONSHIPS:  
> So because of the way the timelines DON'T match up well, the handling of Anders's flight from Amaranthine is the best I can do with the circumstances. It bends the current canon a little to get him in Kirkwall at the right time. I don't actually know how he got his clinic, but it feels like Lirene is a good bet to start with, and Anders would need something to do. He definitely left Amaranthine WANTING to be a healer again, so he went for it. 
> 
> There's no formal introduction for Anders and Hawke, at least not a 'hi, my name is' and I figured it would prove interesting to throw in the fact that anything Sidonie does know of Circle Mages she knows because of Malcolm. He assumes this means SHE was a Circle Mage, and it felt weird that this conversation was never really had in the game on screen, and that in the game Anders just KNOWS that a mage Hawke is an apostate who has always been fine. There's clearly a lot of conversation that happens off screen at various points, rather than in real interaction on screen you get. There's conversations that must occur that simply don't ever physically do so, and so Dances will attempt to compensate for those and fill them in when they're missing. 
> 
> As for Karl, I have no idea if he's an entropy specialist or not (we never learn much about him as a mage) but he's definitely got grey hairs and a full beard when we meet him, and it feels like if he was sent for "new talent" he was one of the good ones. I imagine Kirkwall needs some experts on Entropy, but that as a school it's probably the most feared in Kirkwall. And that would make him heavily watched (more so than others). I also think that the idea of him being one of the Senior Enchanters, or at least a high level mage with acknowledgement as a lecturer of sorts on the topic, it would help make him a good choice to send to Kirkwall when they wanted "new talent". His relationship with Anders is complicated. He's certainly older than Anders is by some amount, and a mage of more experience. He was Anders's first, but the reverse is probably not true. In Circles, power-dynamics and the population size means relationships are by nature quite different, and the entire atmosphere is a close-knit collective. There is little distinction between mages of different rank. A mage, upon finishing their Harrowing, is expected to start training apprentices, but even Senior Enchanters (like the elf woman in Origins) will speak casually to the basic level enchanters. There are even interactions between mages and Templars (often frowned upon but they happen) and so the loose, fast world of Circle relationships is one that we will try to approach as the story develops. After all, it has already impacted how Anders and Nate treated one another during Book 5: Amaranthine.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie helps Aveline to bring down Captain Jeven; Sidonie connects with a few of her friends; nerves are raw as Bethany becomes the topic of conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence, gore, grief, self-blame

Sidonie grimaced and slipped down into a crouch against the wall to wait, Lady panting at her side. Aveline was late, and Varric was checking over Bianca, and Fenris was doing his best to mold into the shadows. Whoever was there to ambush Donnic on his patrol that evening, it was best they did not know beforehand that people were aware. But Aveline was still late, and Sidonie did not even know where to start looking to help. 

The events of earlier still hung over her, the apostate healer and his mad plan to break a mage form the Gallows, battling a dragon and becoming a part owner in a mine that may result in the massacre of hundreds of Fereldan citizens under her name, and the fact she could not even enter the Hanged Man now without someone giving a cheer and buying a round. The last was not really a complaint, but she had taken to using the Hanged Man as a refuge from home, what with Gamlen and Mother always there. 

Carver was in bed now, recovering as per the healer’s recommendation, and frankly he had gone quietly enough. Sidonie assumed that was due to his little argument with Aveline – well, Aveline thought it was little anyway. To Carver, and in some ways to Sidonie, his rejection from the guard courtesy of her meddling meant that they were scrounging for scraps on Bartrand’s coattails. 

“What are you doing down there, Hawke?” Sidonie looked up to catch sight of Aveline, in full guardsman regalia, emerging around the corner from the Bazaar. She rose, leaning a little on her halberd, and shook her head.

“You’re late,” she said, and Aveline sighed.

“I know,” she said. “Jeven has been keeping me busy.” Jeven, Guard-Captain, the man who was involved in all this nonsense. Sidonie sighed. “We can’t waste time, Hawke,” Aveline told her quietly, and she looked more worried than Sidonie had seen her in a long time. Perhaps since Gwaren or earlier – Lothering? She grimaced and gave a nod. “Guardsman Donnic is here somewhere,” Aveline told them, and then glanced past Sidonie towards Varric and Fenris, both watching her from the shadows with solemn eyes. The guardsman said nothing about them, just gave a nod of head, and then motioned for Sidonie to follow. “The routes usually do a circuit of the foundries before heading across towards the Alienage.” 

They set off through the stone streets, where fires burned in torches to light the darkness. It was eerily quiet, enough that Sidonie was positive something was wrong. Even in the evenings, there were people about in Lowtown, usually people up to no good. But the silence that fell now.

The smoke from the foundries veiled the sky, and Sidonie chewed at her lip.

From street to street they wandered, hearing nothing, seeing nothing, Aveline increasingly anxious.

“Are we too late?” Sidonie ventured quietly, but Aveline hushed her with a glare. 

“We can’t be,” was all she would reply.

The night crept on, the shadows did too, and in the darkness, Kirkwall waited to ensnare its prey in shadows and ill intent. Sidonie shivered, mercenary coat feeling too thin for comfort, and forced herself to walk with purpose.

And then at last, when they had started to think they had lost the chance, they heard it.

At first it was a simple sound of tin rolling down the street, like someone had tossed a can or some rubbish at a stray cat fishing for food. But then there was a sharp shout, wordless and instantly muffled, and the sound of footsteps. Sidonie did not need anything else. She followed, listening hard.

It was Varric who tracked them, presumably through interaction with these sorts of characters all the time. They took a sharp turn into the foundries, careening around the twisting corners of Kirkwall’s maze-like streets until they came at last upon a small square surrounded by warehouses set back into the Kirkwall stone.

There, in the center of a mob of Coterie hitmen, was the guardsman, Donnic, who was firmly on his backside by a steaming sewer grate. The Coterie hitmen turned, and Sidonie realized she was stuck using her halberd if she wanted to keep her magic a secret from Donnic. She flipped it about and swung. 

“Oh good,” she said with a dark look. “I was afraid this would be easy.” 

The first of the Coterie men went down as her axe-head thudded through the quilted Coterie uniform and sank into flesh. Sidonie yanked it free, whipped about and cutting the man down with the spearhead on the other end. Bolts took the next before he could reach her, and she threw Varric a small salute, which he acknowledged with a little nod and a sly smirk. 

Fenris had none of her hesitation when it came to his abilities. It was not magic, per se, but easy enough to mistake as such. He flitted into the Coterie ranks, ghosting from man to man. Aveline, behind her, gave a cry and charged.

It was odd to be fighting on her own again, after spending so long at Carver’s side. She felt the absence of his sword, and it made her careful. She started watching her own back more, and that made her defensive abilities shine. She hammered the sword of one of the Coterie members aside, knocking it away with the handle of her halberd, and then slashing up with the spear-head end to drive him further back. 

Part of her ached for magic, to reach for the thin Veil. She struggled against it, forced the thought away. 

_No, I do not need it._

Varric beat the final Coterie hitman over the head with Bianca, bringing him down, and then shot him through the heart for good measure before shaking his head.

“Is everyone alright?” Sidonie asked, checking her people. Fenris gave her a nonplussed stare. Aveline was already putting up her sword, moving to help Donnic who was carefully trying to rise. 

“Who…” he began as she hauled him up. He peered at her. “Ave…Aveline? You’re a beautiful sight.” He blushed a little and pushed his long brown hair from his eyes. “Err, I mean…I was on patrol and they came out of nowhere,” he hurriedly corrected. “I took a few down but there were too many at once.” Aveline shook her head, and Sidonie snorted, giving Varric a knowing look which he returned. Good man, Varric. 

Sidonie knelt to the final Coterie hitman, the one who had tried to run, and pried the satchel Donnic had been carrying from his hands. She pulled the cords loose and then peered inside, digging out some papers. Varric took them from her hands, shaking his head, and Fenris came to stand over them, eyes narrowed.

“The captain said this route was supposed to be quiet,” Donnic said, glancing to them. Fenris gave a low growl.

“The seal of the Viscount,” he said simply in his gravelly voice. 

“Office details, city accounts…” Varric said, flipping through the papers. Sidonie recognized the look of interest in his eyes and carefully relieved him of the papers before he could secret any away.

“Valuable to a guild of thieves,” she said simply. Aveline looked thunderous as Sidonie shoved the papers back into the bag.

“A sacrificial delivery with one of our own,” she said darkly, taking the satchel back. “Captain Jeven _will_ answer.” 

“Selling out his own?” Sidonie smirked, rising and brushing off her hands. “Forget Guard Captain, this man needs to be in government.” She heard Varric give a little chuckle at her back, but the humor was lost on Aveline.

“Not now, Hawke,” she said, and glanced back to Donnic. “Jeven needs to see how justice works.” Yes, justice, that elusive concept. “This goes to the office of the Viscount. This will be known. The captain likes his thieves so much, let’s see if they welcome him in prison.” Sidonie sighed, then glanced to Donnic, giving a small nod.

“I trust I can leave this to you then?” she said simply, meaning them both. Aveline just gave her a flat look, and Sidonie held out her hands. “I’m no guard, Aveline. I’ve spent more nights awake than asleep lately. Just for once, I want to go home and be done with it.” 

“It can’t wait, Hawke.” Sidonie gave her a flat look, and then Aveline’s eyes went sharp. “If doing what’s right won’t appeal to you, then how about blatant self-interest? Your mother is trying to get an audience, isn’t she? Surely being known as an upstanding citizen will help secure one.” Sidonie mulled that over, and Varric shifted as he settled Bianca at his back.

“She has a point,” he said simply. Sidonie sighed.

“Fine, but I’m taking my halberd this time.” Aveline looked for a moment like she may say no, but then sighed, nodded, and glanced to Donnic.

“Will you be alright?” He gave her a confident nod.

“Yes, Aveline. I’ll be alright now.” His eyes softened. “Thank you, and your friends. I don’t know how you knew…” 

“We’re lucky,” Sidonie muttered, and then slipped her staff back over her shoulder by its strap. She took the lead, because she wanted it done with so she could get back to bed, and by leading she could set the pace as well. She had promised her mother she would be home that evening at a reasonable hour for once. If she broke that promise because of Aveline she was not going to be happy. Her mother was worried enough about her without thinking she was dead on the streets somewhere. That said, Sidonie supposed she was just lucky that her mother had yet to hear about that morning’s dragon fight. Living as close to the Hanged Man as they did, it was a miracle the news had not yet spread, though she supposed it was only a matter of time until Leandra did find out, and then she would be in for an earful. 

She eyed the steps up to Hightown dubiously, then began the climb.

To be honest, she had not been particularly sure what Aveline was expecting. Upon arriving at the Viscount’s Keep – left open for the guard patrols but hardly receptive to other visitors at such an hour – they were confused for criminals being brought in by Aveline and Donnic. That took some explaining away before they were at last admitted to see the Viscount’s Seneschal, a disgruntled man called Bran Cavin whose happiness in life seemed to be looking down his nose at callers and telling people he could not help them. 

His office was fairly simplistic, nothing to the Viscount’s, but still fine enough that Sidonie felt awkward standing there while Aveline explained the satchel, the attack on Donnic, and their previous work breaking up the ambush out at the edge of the Wounded Coast. Bran’s eyes never once betrayed his emotions as he listened, but he did casually reach for his books and then force them to sit and wait while he did a check against his own accounts and examined the Viscount’s seal on the documents from the satchel. And then, at last, he looked to Aveline.

“Fetch a few trusted individuals, Guardswoman,” he said. “We shall go and have a word with the good Captain.”

It all went fairly well from there. Bran marched down with them to the guard barracks, where the entire guard compliment turned out to witness Jeven’s removal.

“How dare you?!” the man declared as he was taken into custody by his own men. “I am Guard Captain! I won’t be treated like this!” 

“Captain Jeven, you are under arrest under charges of corruption and dereliction of duty, intent to commit conspiracy, and misuse of office,” Bran intoned in a bored sounding tone as the guards caught Jeven by the arms to drag him away. The silver-haired man’s eyes narrowed, and his eyes pinned on Aveline, who stood grimly watching the affair.

“Fereldan bitch!” he roared. “This was none of your affair! I’ll see you hanged! Quartered! This will not stand!” His threats fell on deaf ears. Aveline gave the slightest of smiles and crossed her arms as Jeven was dragged away between two lines of his jeering men. Donnic, giving her a nod of thanks, drifted off to join the men, Varric and Fenris at his side. That left Sidonie and Aveline with Bran near the old Captain’s office.

“We found a number of debts to…suspect peoples,” Bran said, eyes settling on Sidonie and Aveline. “Such poor character.” Aveline was listening, but her eyes were fixed on the door. Sidonie glanced to her. The Seneschal shook his head, then his sharp eyes slipped to Aveline. “But you, Aveline Vallen, have proven your loyalty and ability.” Aveline just bowed her head a little.

“The guard deserves better than him, Messere,” she said simply. Bran seemed to agree, because he nodded.

“Indeed,” he said, his bored tone flat as ever. “The Viscount would have you put your care for the men into direct practice.” Aveline started, eyes widening, like a mabari catching a scent or a hare before it dashed, but she quickly recovered, shifting her feet. “ _You_ ,” Bran continued, “will assume the Captain’s job.” 

“What?” she said quietly. Bran raised his chin in an airy sort of official way, and Sidonie smirked a little at the image.

“In due time, of course,” he said simply. “There will be training, approvals…” He turned his back, glancing over his shoulder at her in a manner that might have been disdainful had he not just helped her apprehend his own guard captain for corruption. “Months, at least,” he suggested, though Sidonie rather doubted that, given how quickly everything seemed to happen in Kirkwall, even in government. “Who better to rebuild respect than the woman who exposed this…embarrassment?” he suggested. Aveline’s lips parted, and then her green gaze flickered to Sidonie, and she looked to be glowing. Sidonie nodded back. “Resolve any outstanding business, Guardswoman,” Bran said at last, standing at the foot of the steps. “You will be _very_ busy.” And then he left them standing there, with all the guard in attendance, Aveline staring after him as he climbed the steps back to the foyer. 

And then there was a cheer from the guardsmen on Aveline’s behalf.

“Well,” Varric muttered, “would you look at that: a Fereldan in the guard…” He sighed and glanced back. “Although…”

“Varric…” Sidonie said in a warning voice, and he shot her a toothy grin.

“It’s worth a try,” he said, and then pushed himself in alongside Aveline. Sidonie watched as they exchanged a few words, and then Aveline’s brow fell flat and straight and she brushed him away.

“Varric, no,” she said simply to whatever idea he was trying to sell to her.

“But you’re the Captain! Or you will be. It will be easy.” Aveline shook her head.

“I am not petitioning the Viscount to help you steal ownership of the Hanged Man,” she said emphatically before crossing her arms and sinking back against the Captain’s office wall.

“Steal?! Madam, you wound me!” Varric shot back, putting on his best affronted look. Aveline raised an eyebrow.

“I’m about to,” she said, and Varric took the hint. He turned away with a heavy, melodramatic sigh, and gave a wave to Sidonie.

“I’ll meet you by the doors,” he told her gruffly, and went off in a bit of a sulk. Sidonie watched him go, then glanced to Aveline, who sighed. There was the clank of standard-issue armor and Donnic, flanked by Brennan and Fenris, drew close to offer their congratulations.

“Guard Captain Aveline,” Brennan said with a massive smile. “To think, that single patrol of mine would end up in something so big!” 

“I’m not Captain yet, Brennan,” Aveline corrected quietly. “But thank you, all the same.” Her eyes flickered to Donnic. “I trust you are well, Donnic?” It was flat, solemn, quiet. He gave a nod.

“I am,” he assured her. “And your reward is well earned. It will be grand having you over me.” Sidonie had never seen a man flush so scarlet in all her life, and she stifled a laugh as Aveline stared and Donnic immediately overcorrected. “Err, _above_ me. In rank. Guard Captain.” 

“Thank you, Donnic,” Aveline said, a bit more forcefully than necessary. “It will be grand indeed.” Sidonie raised an eyebrow as Donnic gave a slight soldier’s bow to them both and then hurried away in a pall of embarrassment. Brennan snorted a laugh and grinned after him before winking to Sidonie. Aveline shot her a dark glare.

“Don’t you start,” she warned, and Brennan gave her a small smirk before turning away.

“Goodnight, Aveline,” she said. 

Sidonie looked to the orange-haired woman and sighed.

“Big changes are coming, huh?” Aveline said. “Captain of the Guard.” She dropped her gaze. “Thank you, Wesley,” she murmured. Sidonie raised her eyebrow higher then. 

“Not sure I like being behind the dead in order of influence,” she muttered, “especially not after you marched me all the way up here to help and kept me from my bed.” Aveline sighed.

“Of course I have you to thank,” she said quietly. “It’s just…I’ve made a mess of things, time to time. But that failure…He’s not with me. I know that. Wesley’s at the Maker’s side, or he’s not. Either way, he knows no pain.” She looked up, and her eyes were solemn, and pained. “What I keep is that moment,” she said softly. “I won’t let anyone down like that again.” 

_It’s all your fault._

“Wesley’s at the Maker’s side or he’s not?” Sidonie asked quietly, sinking back against the wall beside the guardswoman. For the year she had known Aveline, she had come to understand her as an upstanding, genuinely good person who liked upholding rules and living within the constraints of the life she was given. The idea of uncertainty over Wesley in the future…

Aveline gave a small smile, shaking her head.

“Wesley believed, and if he was correct then that’s where he is.” Her eyes closed a little. “But…this business of the less the Maker does, the more he’s proven? I don’t find it compelling.” Sidonie glanced sidelong to her, considering Aveline in profile, and then wet her lips.

“But you married a Templar,” she said softly. They were the Chantry’s might, the military arm of belief itself. Aveline just turned her head, meeting her gaze.

“I married a man,” she corrected. “A good one. And he’s gone.” Wesley could have rejected them, chosen not to travel with them. He could have used any number of his Templar abilities to stop them. In the end, because of Aveline, he had let them be, and they had traveled together through the Blighted lands near Lothering. 

They had lost Bethany and Wesley both, but the tendrils that tied them still to those souls stretched forth, tangled them up even then, a year later, and would not be letting go. Sidonie nodded.

“I have heard the Chant,” Aveline added quietly, and it was her turn to consider Sidonie. The mage could feel her eyes upon her even as she glanced across the room. “It is lovely. Perhaps that’s all it needs to be?” A truce of sorts in those words. 

She could have turned her in long before. She could have pointed the finger and the Templars would come marching to Gamlen’s door. But she had not. Whatever they were – friends was not the right word – Aveline was looking out for her, keeping watch over her and making sure that she did not get too far into trouble. She did not make Sidonie’s life easier – the money from a guardsman’s stipend would have gone a long way – but neither did she stand in the way, really. Aveline let her stumble, she just did not let anyone else do the pushing. 

Like a big sister. 

The thought made Sidonie’s mind quiet. She felt the rippling across the Veil, thoughts of Bethany and what she herself should have done, and she bowed her head.

“We…can’t take the blame for the darkspawn horde,” she finally said quietly. It was an attempt to convince herself. Aveline gave a soft, mirthless laugh, pushing herself up from the wall.

“I put Wesley to the sword myself, Hawke,” she said coolly, and Sidonie looked up.

“Well…there’s that,” she admitted. Aveline sighed, all mother hen for a moment, and let her arms fall to her sides. 

“I know in my head that it was right,” she assured her. “So did Wesley. But in my heart, that cut was cruel.” Then she shook her head. “But neither Wesley, nor Bethany would want to see us so glum.” 

“Well, you are Guard Captain now,” Sidonie said. And that meant things might start getting complicated. She was often straddling the legal fence – in fact she lived most of her life there. “I could get used to having the law on my side.” Aveline smirked, giving her a small push against her shoulder.

“You’ll behave yourself, is what you’ll do,” she said forcefully. “I just sent Jeven to prison over corruption. I won’t go the same road.” Sidonie pursed her lips, trying to hold back the small smile that was twisting the corners.

“You never let me have any fun,” she sulked. The guardswoman grinned.

“I think,” she said, “that’s best for everyone.” And then Aveline gave her a small smile, reaching up to wrap her in an embrace. It took Sidonie by surprise. They had never touched before. And here was Aveline, enveloping her in a sisterly hug, like the kinds Sidonie had given Bethany all those years in Lothering. It stung a little, but it calmed her soul too. Sidonie settled into it, and carefully reached to return it, closing her eyes a moment. For the briefest of instances, it was Bethany in her arms again.

And then Aveline pulled back.

“Thank you for helping me get here, Hawke,” she said softly. “It’s where I should be.” Sidonie nodded, feeling something thick in her throat – emotion? Aveline waved her towards the door. “Go on, get back home before your mother wonders. And take that dwarf with you, before he bribes half my guardsmen.” Sidonie grinned, then motioned to Varric and Fenris before giving Aveline a wave goodbye.

Fenris parted company with them at the foot of the Viscount’s steps, but Varric decided it was best they stick together until they reached the Hanged Man, so they meandered in silence down the steps towards Lowtown, Lady’s padded footsteps the only noise on the stone. The moonlight was casting silver bars of light across their feet as they walked the path, and the quiet hushed noises of the crashing waves from the Waking Sea far out by the docks whispered up at them from their perch high above the main body of the city. From up so high, looking down, Sidonie could see the main twisting maze of the streets, which always seemed to her so haphazard she was amazed it had ever been built as such at all.

“So,” Varric mused, “how’s your mother’s attempt to become Lady Amell again going?” 

“How did you - ?” Sidonie sighed. “Well, assuming she can get in with the Viscount, I’m sure she’ll have it sorted in no time. She’s…persistent.” Varric gave a low chuckle.

“What’s your first act as a noblewoman going to be, then, Hawke?” Hawke considered a moment, then smirked.

“A noblewoman with no fortune and no title? Looking for work, probably,” she admitted. She was doing that now. And if the expedition did not pay off…

She felt a weight in her pocket, the small medallion which she reached to close her fingers around. Promises to keep…she sighed. Varric shook his head.

“Practicality,” he announced, “is for peasants, Lady Hawke. You need to do something frivolous to celebrate your birthright.” She raised an eyebrow, glancing over to him.

“Such as…?” she prodded. His eyes lit up. He had, of course, been hoping she would take his bait.

“Come up to the Hightown Market and complain bitterly that there’s no Orlesian silk that matches your eyes,” he suggested. She barked a laugh at that, and beside her Lady gave a startled yelp in response.

“Silk this color?” she said, holding up a hand towards her face. “Maker, it would be better suited to the Blooming Rose, don’t you think?” And then she sighed. “Anyway, what if something _does_ match my eyes? What will I do then?” 

“Insist that they’re blatantly copying you, and demand royalties,” Varric said as if it were the obvious answer. “A good noble always has a complaint ready.” Sidonie shook her head, reaching to soothe Lady at her side.

“Well, it’s one way to earn money,” she admitted. Varric gave her a simple nod, patting Bianca.

“So, what will you do about this Grey Warden?” he asked, dropping the volume a little and letting his smile slip. Sidonie’s slipped as well, and she chewed at her lip a little, glancing up the steps from the Lowtown Bazaar towards the Hanged Man. 

“I…don’t know, Varric. He wants us to fight Templars. Maker’s blood, if I get mixed up in that…” Varric gave an understanding nod, then motioned towards the tavern.

“Want a drink? I’ll put it on my tab.” Sidonie wet her lips, then sighed, shaking her head.

“No, Varric. I…I should get home.” He smiled slightly.

“Take care then, Hawke. Don’t get dead.” She grinned and nodded, taking the turning down towards the Old City Slums where Gamlen’s apartment stood.

The inside was lit with the light of a fire, meaning Mother was still up and waiting for her, since Gamlen and Carver certainly would not be, and that did not bode well at all. She let herself in carefully, closing the door quietly in her wake, and watched Lady pad over to curl up on the dirty floor. And then she considered her Mother, standing before the fire with her arms crossed.

“Mother.” 

Leandra let out a heavy sigh, bowing her head, and then finally looked back.

“Carver mentioned something about dragons,” she said curtly, her voice high strung and stiff. Sidonie blinked, then sighed, coming forward and propping her staff up against the table as she took a seat. 

“Only a little one.”

“Oh, Sidonie!” Her mother’s face contorted and she crossed her arms, looking across the room. “If your Father were here…” She trailed off and then fell quiet. Sidonie waited a heartbeat, two, then leaned forward, lacing her fingers together.

“Mother, we didn’t go looking for it. And we were not on our own. Varric was there, and Fenris. We were expecting a mine collapse.” 

“A mine!” Leandra’s blue Amell eyes were wide and fearful. “Oh darling, I wish you did not have to…” She paused and turned away, heaving a great sigh, and Sidonie looked down at the tabletop, picking at the wood grain a little before looking up.

“I…have a way to get your audience with the Viscount,” she said, trying to change the topic. Leandra gave her a despairing look, then peered into the flames.

“Oh darling,” she said again, her voice going quiet. 

For a while the pair of them were both silent, simply listening to the crackle of the fire. And then Leandra sighed, looking back at Sidonie with sad eyes.

“The Amells have been a noble family in Kirkwall since Garahel drove out the Fourth Blight,” she said at last. “But we’ve always carried magic in our blood. My cousin Revka had four children. The Circle took them all.” She drew a deep breath. “It’s been a stain on our lineage. No family of good standing would ever marry into a line with magic. When I chose your father…I was bringing more magic into our line, not less. I think that’s what hurt my parents the most.” Sidonie felt the lash of her words, the sorrow in them. She was a reminder of that. Bethany too. Leandra’s eyes narrowed at the flames. “When I told your grandmother I was marrying your father, she threatened to disown me,” she said. She crossed her eyes, looking back to the fireplace. “She said my children would be mongrels. My father wanted to lock me in, but she said ‘it’s her life, let her ruin it.’” She looked back, Amell eyes the same shape as Sidonie’s, but holding the echo of Bethany and Carver. Sidonie wondered if they were eyes that were meant to be sad, to be angry, to be haunted by something eternal. She wondered if her own did not appear the same, bloodied as they were with the oxblood Hawke coloring. And she wondered as well if cousin Revka’s four children had those same eyes, and how many of them had made it living in the Circles. She thought of Anders, of the fate she had escaped by mere circumstance and her father’s determination, and she felt a hollow inside her. 

Never good enough. She knew that. It was her fault they had never had a steady home. She was the reason her mother had fallen out with her grandmother. She was the reason that the Hawkes had always been on the move. Her father had been careful, smart. She had been foolish. 

Never mind Carver’s insecurities, feeling always in her shadow, the lesser of three children. Sidonie was the one to blame for all that had befallen them. If she had not been a mage…they could have stayed in Wycombe, or anywhere else in the Free Marches, and been safe there from the Blight. Malcolm might have lived. Bethany would still be there. And her mother…

Mother would not be grasping at the tattered threads of the remnants of her life in Kirkwall.

“I wrote to her when each of you were born,” Leandra said quietly, sinking into a seat at the table beside Sidonie. Sidonie looked up, and Leandra gave her a quiet sad look, reaching to stroke her hand across Sidonie’s silken black hair where it was caught up in its ponytail. “She never wrote back. I’m glad she didn’t die hating me.” 

“Mother…” Sidonie said, unable to find the words. Leandra, after all, blamed her for all that had befallen them. She had said as much over Bethany’s body in the hills near Lothering. The words said in passion were held close to the heart. They held truth. Sidonie swallowed. A flicker of anguish passed through her mother’s eyes, creasing her brow, and Leandra let her hand fall then, resting it gently atop the table instead.

“When I was girl,” she said softly, voice thick with memory, “your grandmother was the young, beautiful, noble mother all my friends wished they had. She might have had a hard time accepting it at first, but she would have loved you, all three of you.”

Sidonie opened her mouth, but again she had nothing to say, so she bowed her head instead, and the hair her mother had stroked back before fell forward to hide her face a little.

“Oh, Bethany,” Leandra muttered, hugging herself. “She was…such a sweet little girl. Never cried, just looked at you with those big eyes.” Carver’s eyes. Mother’s eyes. Amell eyes. Sidonie shook her head, pushing the pain away. 

“She would want us to move on, Mother,” she finally said, her voice thick with the words. She felt her eyes prickling from unshed tears. Leandra shook her head, eyes filled with her own tears, and she blinked them back.

“I just keep thinking there’s something we could have done,” she sniffed. “It’s killing me. I…remember that awful creature reaching down and…” She stopped abruptly, a tear escaping and rolling down her cheek. “Eighteen years of loving and feeding and raising and…that was it.” Sidonie just looked away, feeling the medallion in her pocket, and grimacing.

 _It’s all your fault._

“It’s all my fault.” 

Leandra looked up, sharply, mouth ajar, and then shook her head. She reached for Sidonie’s hand, ducking her head to look her in the eyes.

“Oh darling, no. I was distraught! I never really believed that.” Sidonie pulled away, standing up and turning her back, letting out a shaking breath.

“Of course not,” she muttered, gazing at the door, her voice sullen. Leandra sighed.

“There were four of us when the Blight began,” she said quietly. “It will never be over while there are just three.” Sidonie, her back still to Leandra, bit at her lip, then drew a deep breath.

“Tomorrow, visit Aveline in the barracks. She’ll…get you an audience,” she said shortly, and then turned away towards the bedroom. It was dark within, and she ignored her mother’s quiet sobs behind her, closing the rickety door shut behind her and letting out a slow sigh to control her own shaking breath. 

She crossed to the bed, setting her staff beside Carver’s greatsword and stripping off her mercenary coat and tossing it onto the table. And then she set her hands on the rough wood of the bunkbed to haul herself into the top bunk. 

“Sidonie…” She closed her eyes and drew another breath, schooling her voice to calm.

“Go to sleep, Carver,” she said shortly, and she heard him shift. 

“Sidonie, she doesn’t…it isn’t…” 

“Carver.” She could not keep the anger or the sorrow from her voice. She felt it break. “Leave it.” She heard him move again, and then felt his hand catch hers, and in the darkness she could hear his soft sniffs. He was crying too. He did not let go of her hand, and neither did he speak. She stood there, setting her forehead against the wood of the bed, her free fingers curled tightly about the beam until they ached from the pressure, and sobbed silently into the frame to keep from letting Leandra hear them. Carver’s fingers were tight on her own, and she felt him press his face into the back of her hand, shaking against her, making the back damp.

“I miss her,” she heard him say. “We could have…we should have…”

“I know,” Sidonie murmured, breast rising and falling as the tears slipped down her cheeks. “I know.” 

***

She woke in the bed next to Carver, curled beside him on the lower bunk’s straw mattress. She had not remembered falling asleep, or even getting into bed, but it was clear she had had no success getting up into the upper bunk. She sat up, giving a soft groan at the crick in her neck from the odd sleeping position, and sighed down at Carver’s sleeping form.

It was something they had done as children, whenever Bethany or Carver was upset, something they had learned from Malcolm: get close, stay close, cry it out together. Siblings look after one another. 

It was not the same, just Carver and Sidonie alone. Bethany was still missing from their trio. And it had been a long time since any of them had cried anything out together. 

Sidonie gazed down at Carver’s drawn face, then curled her knees up to her chest, setting her head back against the wall on one side of the bunkbed, closing her eyes. For too long they had held in the loss of Bethany, both of them blaming themselves. In the darkness, they had connected, they had found the loss between them. It was a grief too big to speak of in the daytime, and a guilt too large to acknowledge ever again. And it still lingered, but they were not alone in it. 

Sidonie had never been the perfect older sister. She knew that much. She had butted heads with Carver since they were very young, both of them too headstrong, both of them too determined to have it their own way, both of them so wrapped up in their own problems to pay much attention. The loving, gentle one had been Bethany. She had kept them together, bridged the distance they put between them. 

Now they must do that alone. Sidonie sighed, hanging her head, burying it in her arms across her knees. 

_I can’t let anything happen to Carver. I have to protect him. I failed Bethany. It was all my fault. I will not fail Carver,_ she thought. 

And then he was stirring too.

“Wha…Sidonie…” He blinked up at her, eyes like Bethany’s, like Mother’s, and she rose to push herself up.

“How are your ribs?” He tested them, giving a little wince.

“Fine. Just…slept funny.” 

“Good. I need you back on your feet today.” She reached to pull on her mercenary coat and shoulder her halberd by the strap. Carver sighed.

“Right,” he muttered. “Meeran. Flint Company.” Sidonie nodded.

“Mhm,” she mused, as he forced himself to rise and reach for his greatsword. Then she glanced back towards the bed behind them, and he did too, and then he fixed her with a steady look. There was a solemnity to his eyes then.

“Sister…I’m with you,” he said softly. “For now.” She gave a nod, and then looked away towards the door.

“Come on, Little Brother,” she told him. “Time to earn our bread for the day.” He snorted and strode past her, putting some distance between them, putting the walls back up. 

“I bet I get more of them than you,” he challenged as he threw open the doors. 

“No chance in the Void,” she shot back, and followed him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ABOUT VARRIC AND SIDONIE'S CONVERSATION  
> The discussion Varric and Sidonie have on the way back from the Keep about what Sidonie will do as a Lady is actually dialogue Varric has with a living Bethany. Given that it is Carver alive, I felt it would be okay to use in this instance, as it felt quite fitting for Sidonie's character, and lets them have a bit of bonding. Also, I liked the dialogue a lot, and it's a shame to just not use it at all. :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel Howe reaches Amgarrak Thaig and learns not all is as it seems; Leliana is on a grand adventure all her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence, gore.
> 
> Comments always welcome!
> 
> Sorry for the delay on this one. I had to do a LOT of research into a LOT of different things for this chapter. I promise it will all end up paying off, and thank you for your patience. As always for chapters like this, lore notes at the bottom! XD ~HR

It was in the company of a bronto – some great leather horned beast with grey skin and a massive horn atop its nose – called Snug and Jerrik Dace and his men alone that Nathaniel and Sigrun travelled south towards the apparent location of Amgarrak Thaig. Snug was loud and Nathaniel did not like loud, when he was used to doing things on the sly, but the bronto did prove useful for clearing rocks in fallen caverns. 

The Deep Roads looked very much the same regardless of where they were – all geometric corners, either triangular or square tunnels, and the occasional turn off that led into hewn rock passages void of real light. Nathaniel lost all sense of time and place really, until Sigrun finally jovially admitted she knew they were travelling south-west, which by his figuring had them somewhere near Redcliffe or Lake Calenhad. It was a little hard to tell. 

“How do you even know that?” he asked the grinning Legionnaire. Sigrun just gave him a knowing smirk.

“Because I’ve been this way before.” She pointed down the corridor. “Ahead there will be a turning we probably won’t take that leads you south to Bownammar. I walked this way with the Commander and Constable when I was running with Kardol’s Legion.” Nathaniel took a moment to consider what it might mean to walk the same route again as Eideann had taken. 

He had never really put much thought into how much time Alistair and Eideann had actually spent beneath the surface during the Blight. He had heard only a few stories, and most of them from people above, about how they had helped to name a king, and found some relic called the Anvil of the Void. The result was the same on the surface: dwarven aid against the Blight. And that was the important part there. 

But now, down in the tunnels, he wondered.

“Bownammar?” he asked. 

“The City of the Dead,” Sigrun replied, her eyes shining dully in the light from the molten lava flows that lit either side of the tunnel. Her smile was gone now. “The Dead Trenches, where the darkspawn breed far below the earth. It…was ours once, and now, thanks to them, it’s ours again.” 

Nathaniel grimaced, pushing the thoughts into the back of his mind. It made him think of Kal’Hirol and the ghosts that wandered the halls, trapped in lyrium as memories forever. He did not like the idea at all.

Travelling into the depths of the earth was nothing like the distance he had wanted to find. He was trying to put some space between himself and Amaranthine, between himself an Anders. Honestly, he knew he was burying himself in Warden work. He had hoped to find a reprieve, something to cut the shackles that bound him down. Instead he felt buried, smothered, sinking lower into the earth, like a corpse at a funeral.

He had thought by coming here instead, he was doing what he needed to do: clearing his mind of all the nonsense while also being a real Warden. He had submitted himself to the fate that would always be a Warden’s, the wandering of the Deep Roads. He had no choice in that, after all. No choice in any of it.

He felt a wash of bitterness, despair. So many things he had wanted from life, all of it come to nothing. There was no such thing as choice. There was only fate. Even with Anders, when he had wanted something and gone after it, everything was wrong. 

That hurt. Still. In the halls of the ancient dwarven kingdoms, he focused in on that pain. It was not the loss of being left – that was hardly a surprise. It was the loss of not being loved. Or perhaps of being loved and forsaken anyway. 

His family had always made those choices. His mother had married and found only misery. His father, turned cold by anger and bitterness, had found himself driven into treason for the chance to wield some mastery over his life.

There was no choice. There were was only fate. It was out of his hands. Howes did not end well. And he was next in line.

They finally turned westward down a roughly cut path, and Jerrik Dace grew very, very quiet. And that made Nathaniel’s brain scream warnings.

He reached for his grandfather’s bow – forever tied to that past, the Wardens had even claimed Padraig Howe – and then nocked an arrow.

He could not sense the darkspawn, but there was no doubt that something had come this way. The remnants of a camp, battered and destroyed, but still fairly new, stood just within the cave. Nathaniel crept beyond it, and Sigrin, eyes narrowed, hefted her axes into both hands, tightening her grip on the hafts. 

“What do you think, Lieutenant?” she asked quietly.

“I think we should be careful.” He looked to Jerrik Dace, who seemed a little wary himself. “Recognize your equipment?” Nathaniel asked him quietly. Jerrik quirked his lips in a grimace and then gritted his teeth. Nathaniel glanced down the corridor.

“It looks like House Dace,” Jerrik said at last. “But I don’t see any of the men.” Sigrun shook her head, her pigtails quivering. 

“That is not…unexpected,” she said. She was still looking at Nathaniel who finally nodded.

“We have no choice,” he said. “We are here to find out what is going on here.” And if necessary, to stop it. Sigrun gave a solemn nod, then took the lead, providing the front-line cover for Nathaniel. He, in turn, drew his short-sword and grasped it alongside his bow grip in case he was drawn into anything close combat quickly. And then they stepped into the tunnels.

It did not take long to find the first bodies, coated in so much blood and torn to shreds in a way Nathaniel had never seen before.

“That’s not like darkspawn,” Sigrun said in a warning voice, and Nathaniel grimaced at the scattered corpses littering the hewn stone floor. In the darkness, it was hard to see, but Sigrun was prepared for that, striking flint to light one of the torches they had packed onto Snug the bronto and holding it aloft. In the darkness the caverns seemed to go on for an eternity.

Nathaniel had been expecting darkness, but not anything so pitch black as this. And worse, he had a feeling in his bones that whatever lay ahead was not a natural force. If Sigrun was right, and it was not darkspawn, then he had no idea what it was.

“Thoughts?” he asked her, and she simply shook her head.

“As blank as you, Lieutenant,” she replied. “We have to go on to see.” 

“Be careful,” Nathaniel warned. Beside him, Jerrik Dace drew a pair of swords from his back with a scowl.

“I don’t like the look of this.” 

They crept further into the cave, Nathaniel leaning into the shot he might have to take in an instant, trying to peer into the darkness of the caverns beyond the flickering torch. Sigrun, only armed with one axe now she had the torch, led the way, moving as silently as a mouse across the floor. 

Then he felt something, a flicker. A darkness. Above. Ahead. And he froze.

“Wait.” 

Sigrun froze too, then dropped the torch, letting it light up the battlefield from the stone floor as she reached for her other axe.

“What is it?” Jerrik Dace said, a moment before they were upon them.

“Darkspawn!” 

He had fought them before, but these were not the thinking sort at Amaranthine. They were stupid and slow, but he did catch sight of an Emissary further down the cave by the flash of dark magic that rippled through the dim air. He aimed there, and let his arrow fly, even as Sigrun darted in front of him to cut down the charging hurlock fighters with their wicked blades.

Nathaniel ducked, dropped to one knee, whipped out another arrow, and fired again, and this time heard the sound of the Emissary dropping with a grunt. He took stock, heard the whistle of an arrow slice an inch from his ear and then clatter against the wall, and then gave a roar as he chased it back with another arrow, and the archer was felled too.

He felt the heavy feeling of something hitting his back and shoved upwards to clear it, watching as the body of a felled hurlock crumpled to the floor. He glanced to Sigrun, who was cutting down the last, and turned, hacking up as she went down, and together bringing down the final one. And then they froze, waiting to see if the sound had alerted anything else. 

He could not sense any more darkspawn – not yet at least. Perhaps further ahead.

“So…it is darkspawn then.” Sigrun’s voice was quiet, a little wary. “But so few?” 

“Fah!” Jerrik Dace spat, literally spitting onto the stone. “Our men will not have fallen to such a modest number of darkspawn. There’s something more sinister here.” 

“Perhaps there is a nest further in?” Nathaniel muttered, and felt queasy at the thought. He did _not_ want to face another Broodmother.

“No, there’s…no smell,” Sigrun said, trying to put her finger on it. “It’s too quiet. And those bodies…no, that’s not darkspawn work…” 

“Keep your guard up. We have to go on.” That, at least, was true. They had come this far, and Eideann was counting on him. 

So the carried along the cavern, Sigrun scooping up the torch again and walking slower now. They crept along the cavern, spread out a little in the pool of light from the torch which cast back the shadows and darkness somewhat but ultimately left the darkness even darker beyond their little circle. 

As they walked, Nathaniel felt flickers of the darkspawn taint, drifting in and out, but since he had no clue what to make of that, he focused on what his eyes could make out, or his ears, or his nose. Still no smell to indicate a nest. Blurry shapes of darkness was all he could see. 

And the sound of wind whistling down the tunnel.

“Do you hear that?’ Sigrun gave a nod, holding the torch alight, but ahead was only blackness, only darkness.

And then Nathaniel realized, that the darkness _was_ the wind, tendrils of smoky haze blocking the way forward, winding in circles. Getting too close caused the wind to ruffle his hair, his clothes, and he did not know what it was anyway. He did not like the idea of it.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Jerrik muttered, stepping forward hesitantly, but keeping himself at a safe enough distance for all the extra effort. “It’s not right.” They paused a moment and then a rippled fluffed through Nathaniel’s hair and he took a step back. “Look!” Jerrik said in alarm. “The mist is shifting.” He pointed down to their left, where the black whatever-it-was had begun to part, revealing a way through the rock.

“This is about the worst idea I think you’ve ever had,” Sigrun muttered, giving him Nathaniel a flat look when he glanced to her.

“What choice do we have? We don’t even know what this stuff is.”

“Magic?” the Legionnaire suggested, shifting her grip on the torch. “It looks evil. And it reeks of darkspawn too.” And that much was true.

“Blight magic then,” Nathaniel said coldly, and Jerrik sniffed.

“But why? Are they trying to keep people out of the thaig? Have they claimed it? They’ve never used something like this before.” 

“Or they want to keep something in,” Sigrun muttered, lowering her axe. “Don’t touch it.” Jerrik did not need urging. They crept along single file, Sigrun taking the lead, Nathaniel at their back just to be on the safe side. Snug panicked as they drew close, but Jerrik calmed him enough to usher him through the narrow corridor between the parted black mists. 

The pathway disappeared round a crevasse in the rock, and Nathaniel watched the others disappear around it one by one, until suddenly they were blocked from proceeding any further forward by the end of the cave. Nathaniel looked back, warily, to check the way was still open to them. He did not want to try his luck wading through Blight magic wind. Instead he gritted his teeth, inched around Snug, and caught sight of Sigrun poking her torch towards a giant metal brazier.

Like that the cavern filled with light. On either side of the chamber, statues of paragons held solemn watch. And standing between them, hunched over and prone, was a golem. It was not like the one they had seen at Kal’Hirol, which had been aflame and raging, but smaller, built of iron, with strange glowing eyes and horns that seemed as blue as lyrium. Sigrun left the torch burning in the pool of oily pitch within the brazier and crossed to study the golem for herself. She stood, slipping her axe back into its holster, and peered up at the golem’s head with quiet eyes.

“Hold on then, Brother,” she said softly. “I’ll help you walk again.”

“A golem!” Jerrik breathed, paying Sigrun little heed. “We must be getting close to Amgarrak.” Sigrun looked back, her eyes narrowed, and Nathaniel read the contempt in her eyes for this noble dwarf before her. Jerrik missed it, however, stepping closer to consider the golem with its smelted features and foreboding stature. “This _is_ one of Caridin’s golems,” he added, convinced. “But…” He peered closer. “Modified?” He stepped back to take in the whole picture, stroking down his mustache on either side of his mouth. “They must have experimented on existing golems in Amgarrak. Maybe they also learned the secret to building new ones.”

“With any luck, they did not,” Sigrun said sharply. Jerrik Dace turned his eyes on her, shaking his head.

“And what would you know of it, Brand?” he asked coolly. Sigrun raised her chin a little.

“More than you,” she shot back. “We brought word back from the Anvil of the Void, when the Warden Commander met Caridin himself to forge King Bhelen’s crown. We know how they were made: through pain, suffering. They’re dwarves, forced into bodies of metal – most were given no choice.”

“And what would you have us do? Surrender Orzammar to the darkspawn?” Jerrik shot back darkly.

“Enough,” Nathaniel said quietly, feeling a headache coming on. There was too much magic here, blight magic and golems forged in lyrium, for anything good to come of the thaig. “Our task is to find the expedition, not to find the golem research.” 

“But if we do – !” Jerrik protested.

“Golems are the enslaved souls of the living!” Sigrun exclaimed. “They are our brothers and sisters! Caridin himself wanted the Warden-Commander to destroy the Anvil of the Void.”

“And Paragon Branka wanted to save it.” Jerrik’s eyes were cold. “The decision is not up to you, Brand.”

“I am a Warden, and a Legionnaire Scout,” Sigrun spat.

“Alright, enough!” Nathaniel said, sharper this time. “Sigrun, how do we wake up this golem? If there are darkspawn in that thaig, we have to clear them out. And if the expedition made it past this blighted mist, we have to find them. What House Dace decides to do with the knowledge of this thaig is up to them. The Warden-Commander made her preferences clear in Orzammar during her visit, and since. If House Dace wishes to go against those wishes, they will deal with the consequences as they will. The decision is theirs.” His eyes, steely and cold, fell on Jerrik who glared back but said nothing. Sigrun gave a sigh.

“A control rod. We need to wake it.” Nathaniel nodded, then motioned for her to look about.

“Don’t go far,” he told her quietly as she gathered the torch, “and watch your back.”

“Yes, sir.” Sigrun slipped away then, and that left the snorting bronto, the glaring Jerrik, and Nathaniel alone with the golem in the mists. 

“I wonder if this golem is still functional,” the dwarven noble muttered, his eyes slipping to the iron creature. Maker, it _had_ once been a dwarf… “It will be a great help if it still works.” Nathaniel glanced to Jerrik then.

“This…expedition…the entire purpose was to find the key to making golems again. Why? For the first time in centuries, the dwarves are reclaiming the ancient thaigs again. Orzammar does not stand alone.”

“Because until the next Blight, Warden, we will fight the darkspawn. A Blight for dwarves is a short reprieve. In the meantime, they blight our ancient thaigs, steal our women, and consume the Deep Roads. Once we were proud. Now look at us, noble houses squabbling over the scraps. It is not much better among the surface Merchant’s Guild. Even there, everyone is out for themselves. Amgarrak is Victory, and House Dace needs a victory, Warden.” Nathaniel sighed, studying the golem.

“I met a golem once, the one who travelled with Queen Eideann and King Alistair. Shayle of House Cadash.” Jerrik said nothing, but Nathaniel could hear him listening. “She volunteered, I heard, when Caridin asked. But many did not, and those many who did not were political rivals or the Casteless who had no choice. But even Shayle spent many years at the beck and call of a mortal master, a warrior who volunteered to defend the Deep Roads from darkspawn who lost even the right to sit and stand when she pleased. She makes up for it now.” He looked to Jerrik. “I think whatever you find in that thaig…you should be careful. No one should be forced into a life they do not want. It makes a heart bitter and cold.”

He was not thinking of golems then. He looked back to the golem, but in his mind he saw his father – the traitor who wanted the power to decide his own fate. And he felt a wash of cold himself. 

There was a soft noise of footsteps, and he whipped about, sword ready, but found it was only Sigrun returning with a crystalline rod in her hands. He eyed it up, and she pursed her lips. Nathaniel was about to reach for the rod, but then he saw the burning in her eyes, and paused.

“Would you like to do it?” he asked her. Sigrun glanced to the rod, then gave a small nod.

“At least I know I won’t make it do anything I would not want to,” she said softly, glancing to the golem, and then she held up the rod. “Dulen harn.” There was a creak of old metal shifting finally, and then something gave. The golem stretched, stepped forward hard enough to shake the earth and startle Snug, and then paused, waiting. Sigrun gave it a sad look, then swallowed hard. “I will find a way to free you from these chains, Brother,” she said as a promise. The golem made no reply.

Nathaniel was not sure what to expect. He had perhaps assumed this golem might speak like Shayle. But perhaps the control rod kept it silent, or else worked somehow to alter its perceptions and mind. He did not know, and did not like to think on it. It felt all sorts of wrong. Sigrun, eyes shaded, gave him a quiet nod. 

“Ready, Lieutenant.”

Nathaniel took the lead this time, the golem and Sigrun in the rear, his sword and bow both in his hand. He perhaps need not have worried. As they drew towards the blighted winds, there was a strange shift, and he felt the wind alter course again. This time, away from them, as though their very presence forced it back.

No. Not their presence. The golem’s. He looked back, brow creasing. 

“How is it doing that?”

“Lyrium involved in the modification,” Jerrik muttered, considering the iron creature. “Your magic-surpressing people use lyrium too, don’t they?” 

“Templars. Yes.” He considered that a moment, wondering how effective Templar abilities were against blight magic. And then he remembered that King Alistair had been a Templar himself, and was fairly sure there must be something of it. As far as he knew, the King had never taken lyrium, but if lyrium _could_ in some way force back blighted magic…

He filed the thought away and gingerly stepped forward, watching as the mists shifted out of his way as the golem drew closer. And then he shook his head.

“This just gets stranger and stranger,” he muttered, but at least they were making some progress. Armed with a golem that could cut through the strange winds, they made their way across the subsequent cavern. The blighted mist swirled about them, parting like a veil. 

And then suddenly the world seemed tinged with blue. Ahead Nathaniel caught sight of darkspawn, shrieks, in an ethereal blue color. He did not wait. He took aim as quickly as he could and fired off three arrows in quick succession, hoping to bring them down before they were upon them. Sigrun and her golem went charging past him, which made everyone else dart forward as well to avoid the blighted mists that began to close in around them. Snug lowered his head and charged. 

And then the shrieks vanished. The strange blue faded, flickering away into the dim light of the torch, and Sigrun came to a halt, chest rising and falling.

“What the sod is going on?” she muttered. 

“Where did they go?” Jerrik demanded, twisting his swords in his grip. “Did anyone see where they went?” 

Nathaniel gritted his teeth and moved to retrieve the arrows that had clattered onto the stone beyond their intended targets. 

“Shrieks disappear but not like that,” Sigrun told him grimly. He nodded.

“Don’t let up your guard,” he replied. 

They traveled in a strange land of shifting blues from there on out. Sometimes the light from Sigrun’s torch was all that lit the way. At other times the world seemed to glow, the color of the lyrium potions Nathaniel had seen Anders carrying. What that meant, he did not know.

And there, further in behind the wall of blighted mist, was the first of the recognizable corpses from the expedition. It bore tattered marks and wounds that no known creature could cause. 

“Not darkspawn,” Sigrun confirmed, and Nathaniel was willing to admit a Legionnaire of all people would know. He rose carefully, and as he did, the world shifted back into blue, and he caught sight of a dwarf running down the cavernous passageway.

“Wait!” he called, but it did not acknowledge him, and then it disappeared around the corner. “Maker’s blood, what is this?” 

“I’m starting to see strange things,” Jerrik said, glancing to him, eyes narrowed in concern. “I’m not comfortable here, Warden.”

“You were the one who asked us to come down here, not the other way around,” Sigrun said pointedly, “but if this is related to the darkspawn, it’s something we’ve never seen before.” She sniffed. “I’m running out of patience for ‘new-types-of-darkspawn’, Lieutenant.”

“That blue state,” Nathaniel muttered. “That only started after the blighted winds.”

“You think it was a barrier?” Sigrun asked. “Something to stop the darkspawn themselves from coming through?”

“I don’t know what this blue thing is,” Nathaniel admitted, “and frankly that worries me, because that means it’s probably involved. But it isn’t constant. It’s just…bleeding through. My arrows went right through those Shrieks, and nothing.” 

“This is Amgarrak Thaig,” Jerrik said in a quiet voice, nodding to the end of the corridor where some light was mutely shining down. It was the dim light of caverns that filtered through the stone. There were none of the fires of the darkspawn there. Nathaniel paused to consider the chamber. 

It was a vast cavern. Dwarven paragon statues like those they had seen at Kal’Hirol stood as silent sentinels, peering out with stony eyes across the ruins of buildings that dated back to the First Blight. There were no signs of the darkspawn there, no totems or fleshy masses of Blight filth like they had seen in Kal’Hirol or in the depths of Drake’s Fall. The thaig seemed still, like all the world was holding its breath, and when Nathaniel exhaled, his breath misted a little into the cold air. 

There was the sound of clicking claws, and Sigrun gave a hiss.

“Tezpadam!” she spat, like it was a curse, and moved to stand away from the wall. The golem control rod was tucked into her belt at her back, but the creature followed her. 

“Tezpadam?” Nathaniel was able to ask before he saw them skittering out of the murk. Deepstalkers. Sometimes they made nests in the caverns of the Coastlands along the Waking Sea. They had a sickly blue hide to blend better with the shadows, and heads that were all mouth filled with razor sharp teeth. And they were heading right for them. He knocked an arrow, pushing away a trickle of fear that crept into his mind, and took aim.

And then the creatures broke away, scuttering around them, past them, spitting and hissing as they hurried back the way that Nathaniel and his party had come. Sigrun watched them go, confused, and Jerrik Dace pursed his lips, lowering his blades.

“’Stalkers are running scared,” he muttered, looked as confused as Sigrun.

“From what?” Sigrun posed the question, and left it to hang in the air. There was a little silence, and then started peering off behind them. “The mist.” Nathaniel looked back to see it creeping down the hall.

“Come on, let’s move on. I’d rather stay clear of that,” he said.

The rest of the thaig, lit by shafts of lyrium glow, was as silent as the beginning. They saw no more deep stalkers. There were shifting mists that lingered in their way, but as their golem drew close, the mists faded back clearing room for them. Nathaniel gave it as wide a berth as he could. Blighted anything was bad news, and only he and Sigrun were really immune to the stuff. The golem seemed a repelling force, but even a golem could get bogged down under that.

It had to be magic, some sort of force, and if Jerrik was correct and the golem’s ability to combat it was born from lyrium experimentation, then that meant more had happened in Amgarrak that he knew about. Lyrium alone should not drive back magic so easily though. After all, mages also used lyrium to fuel spells, not stop them. He did not understand this magic nonsense. It felt strange. Not for the first time did his mind wander to Anders. He needed a mage, really. 

He should have brought Velanna. 

It was too late now in any case. 

“Whatever is going on in Amgarrak is related to this,” Jerrik said.

There was a shifting, now the winds but something else, dry flesh and rusted metal on stone, and the clacking of bones, and Nathaniel watched as several of the walking dead appeared from the mists itself, ambling towards them with purpose. At their head was a Revenant, things he had presumed were merely legends, warriors fallen in battle that had been possessed by demons crossing the weak Veil. He gave a hiss.

“And most likely causing it,” Sigrun suggested. “Get ready.” She gripped her axe hafts and watched as the creatures drew closer, armed and waiting, and then the Revenant gave a shrieking roar and drew its massive sword. At its back was a flickering, twisting maw that churned with a sickly green glow, spreading quite a distance over the top of a pair of unlit braziers above tracings of blood on the stone in spirals and circles. Nathaniel felt his blood run cold. It was a dizziness that hit him to come so close to it. He felt it like a weight settling on his very soul and drew back his bow.

“What in the Maker’s name…?” Jerrik muttered, hardly getting to finish his sentence as the undead approached.

“A tear in the Veil,” Sigrun said hurriedly. “We saw them in Blackmarsh.” She did not look pleased. “Demons come out of it.” 

“That explains the undead,” Nathaniel said, and took aim at the Revenant. “Less talking, more fighting, or more will come through.” That said, a tear in the Veil…he had no idea how to go about closing such a thing. That assumed it was even possible. He had no idea about that either.

He loosed his arrow and knocked another as Snug, Jerrik Dace, Sigrun, and her golem raced forward into the fray.

Something hit him, hard, heavy, unexpected. He felt it knock the air from him, and send him flying sideways to land awkwardly in a heap. His eyes followed it back, blurred a little from the sudden shock of the attack, and he realized he had been hit by some sort of spell. He felt his bruised ribs where Warden leather was not enough to protect him, and winced, struggling to rise.

The creature was no mage, at least not anymore. An Arcane Horror, they called it – a twisting corpse of a mage, possessed by a demon of pride, just as the Revenant was. But the Arcane Horror possessed magical ability, and used it. Through lips that had shriveled back to expose teeth, it grinned a deathly grimace, and brought its hands forward for another spell.

Nathaniel forced himself to move, gathering the bow that had clattered from his hands in the fall, and rolled clear just as another bolt of arcane energy came flying past him.

There was the sound of rock shattering, and he caught a glimpse of Sigrun’s golem hurling a massive stone in the direction of the other undead, sending them to scattered pieces like skittles. He started, staring at it a moment, feeling himself frozen in fear. The last time he had witnessed a golem doing so much damage…

He had almost died. If not for Anders…

Maker. Anders. 

He did not want to be there. He wanted to be back on the surface, far from golems and far from Amaranthine, finding the man who had left him behind. 

“Get up, Duster!” Sigrun called, snapping him back to reality. He rose, knocking another arrow, and taking aim at the Arcane Horror that was drawing on the energy for another spell not far from the tear in the Veil. He hardly took the time to aim, feeling it come naturally to him now he had the singular focus of purpose. He fired, and the arrow pierced the corpse’s skull, sending it hurtling back. A second found it, then a third, until it lay, still, dead once more. And then Nathaniel turned his gaze on the Revenant.

It came towards him with its sword at the ready, reaching for him with the sort of power only denizens of the Fade could muster. 

Sigrun was between them in an instant, axes hacking through undead bone. The spell hit her instead, yanked her from her feet, but she scrabbled at the rock to haul herself back up, spinning around and slamming her axe head back into the other leg. The Revenant went down. 

Nathaniel got off a single arrow before Sigrun was in the way again, and it merely glanced from armor. Sigrun though did not heed the projectile. She went for the face, now it was in reach, gripping it with gauntleted hands and ramming it down into her knee, then kicking the Revenant’s helm from its skull with a practiced motion Nathaniel was certain came from bringing down hurlocks. She swung her axe backhanded, crushing through the dead flesh and earning a cry of rage. And then the other came down to split its skull from above, and she let it fall in a heap, quivering, until the demon possessing it slipped away and she was left standing over a corpse again, panting. 

There was a strange shock, and again the world tilted into that eerie mask of blue. Nathaniel stared, looking to the tear in the Veil, wondering if it was not the cause. But it was gone, and there was movement nearby: a blue figure running away as before.

“There!” Jerrik cried, pointing after him. “I know that man. He was one of the ones sent on the expedition!” Nathaniel paused. They could follow, of course, but what lay ahead? And what if the Veil tear reopened. The blue light flickered, and then faded, and the stone interior of the thaig returned to normal. The tear was still absent, though the summoning circles and braziers remained. Nathaniel stared at it.

“That…that blue wave of...whatever...sealed it up,” Sigrun said quietly. “Last time it took magic.” 

“So the blue _is_ magic,” Nathaniel muttered, feeling a sinking feeling. The golem that was following Sigrun shifted a little, gazing mutely ahead at the road where the figure had disappeared. Nathaniel swallowed. “Maker’s breath, this can’t get more complicated, can it?” Sigrun gave him a knowing look, hauling her axe from the skull of the felled Revenant, and sighed, glancing back towards the space where the veil tear had been.

“It looked like a big tear though,” she said simply. “It would have taken a lot of magic to seal that one up. In Blackmarsh, Anders wouldn’t even try. It was Justice who did it.” Nathaniel mulled that over a moment.

Jerrik Dace, impatient and concerned, drew alongside him.

“We don’t have time to waste, Warden,” he said. Nathaniel just grimaced and nodded, tearing away.

“When we get back,” he said quietly, “we need to tell Cousland about this.” Eideann seemed to spend a great deal of time messed up in strangeness, and if anyone could put the pieces together, it would be her. Sigrun just gave a solemn nod. 

“The citadel should be up ahead,” Jerrik muttered, glancing down the road between the crumbling thaig buildings. Nathaniel gritted his teeth.

He really did not want to go on. With golems reminding him of Kal’Hirol, Blight Magic floating about the area deterred only by their personal golem, and now Veil tears and the undead, he was having a hard time keeping his head on straight. He recognized the signs of panic and forced himself to slow down, to breathe.

You survived the Architect and the Mother. You are the Arl of Amaranthine. It brought a sour taste to his mouth, but it was the truth, and the splash of reality was enough to shock him into action. He looked to Sigrun.

“Alright, we go forward.” It was not like they really had a choice. “Whatever is happening here, even the Veil is unstable, and Eideann said this was important. So we can’t turn back. Anyway, I want to find out what it is that deters a darkspawn enough to put up a Blight barrier.” Sigrun gave a grimace and a nod, glancing up at the golem.

“As you say, Commander,” she replied, falling into line like it were second nature now. “I’m with you.” 

Good. Because if things were this bad at the entrance to the Thaig, they would need all the help they could get.

***

The chill in the air caused her breath to mist before her, for icicles to form in her nostrils in spite of the Chantry scarf wrapped close about her face. Below them, the snows sparkled like diamonds, shimmering and glittering golden and white under the sunlight that seemed to shine from the Maker himself upon their progress. Beyond that, emblazoned in shimmering gold, the Temple of Sacred Ashes, nestled in the mountains, shining like a beacon into the sky, the final resting place of the Maker’s Bride herself.

A thrill went through her, to finally be here, and she shivered from excitement, even as her hands shook from the cold. She paused atop the hill to take in the view, to really consider it, and then drew a deep breath.

 _At last…_

It was not the voyage or even the journey that had been the cause of so many delays. The Waking Sea was no more rough than usual, though the port authorities were carefully checking all ships for stolen cargo, claiming smuggling had been on the rise since the Blight began. The journey between Jader and Orzammar, and Orzammar and Haven had been uneventful if a little snowy, but they were travelling light, with the intent to occupy the space, not loot it for its treasures and relics. Most of their equipment was the gear they needed for camping and surveying the site, nothing more, and Fereldans knew full well how to travel in winter, even in the Frostbacks.

No the delay had been in Val Royeaux itself, at the Grand Cathedral, waiting for the approval of the Divine. Divine Beatrix III was an elderly, senile woman who needed assistance walking and sitting and standing in her twilight years. She had stood against dragons once, and political intrigue that corrupted the very heart of the Chantry and its people. Now, she was a shadow of her former self, and her chancellors and Right Hand were responsible for most of her more strenuous work while a team of attendants ensured the Divine was in good health.

It was a year for preparation for the Ten Year Conclave, to be held at the height of the new year. With so many other things underway, an audience had been hard enough to secure. For months they had lingered, Leliana catching up with friends in the capital while they waited on the Divine’s pleasure for the chance to take their expedition forward.

It had come as a shock when it did finally happen. Divine Beatrix III had summoned them to the audience hall of the Grand Cathedral and there she had told them to go forth with the Maker’s blessing, and her own.

That blessing came in the form of the Divine’s Right Hand, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, a solemn if fierce woman with a perpetual scowl. Leliana glanced back towards the train of people climbing the hill: Templars, Chantry Sisters and Brothers, Scholars…and Cassandra.

Cassandra stood, wrapped in thick, red wool, her Seeker’s armor blazoned with the eye sigil of her Order beneath. She stood with her shield at her back, hand on the hilt of her sword, peering out with dark eyes towards the Temple and the mountains beyond, cutting a rather imposing figure. This was Divine Beatrix’s strength, the warrior who had brought down a High Dragon. 

It had been almost a decade now since blood mages, a Knight-Commander, and the Grand Cleric Callista of Orlais had set in motion a plan to bring down the Chantry. They had kidnapped a mage who could control animals, fed her the blood of dragons until she was as much a part of them as they were of her, and murdered their way through their opposition to rain terror upon the last Ten Year Gathering of the Faithful. Cassandra Pentaghast had stood with the help of the Circle of Magi against them, bringing down three dragons and a Pride demon, and saving the Divine and all those assembled. She was there to do something not too different now. After all, Eideann had made her choice clear when they had last been to the Holiest of Holies: a dragon would protect the Urn for some time. Eideann had left the dragon alone. Leliana, however, could not.

Cassandra Pentaghast caught her watching and her eyes slipped to her across the stillness of the chilly air. For a moment, Leliana gazed back at the Divine’s Right Hand, the Hero of Orlais, but then she at last tore away as the stare made her heart grow cold. It reminded her of Eideann a little, that icy cool look. And it reminded her also of Marjolaine.

Oh, she knew she was not chosen, had been sent dreams to help those who could stop the Blight. She was no Andraste, sent to be the messenger of the Maker in times of need. But she liked to imagine that there was a hand behind it all, which had shaped the course of her life and brought her to that point.

This was _her_ grand adventure, what she could offer the world in return for her life and the good she had been given. She could deliver to the faithful the Sacred Ashes of Andraste. That then was her purpose. 

She glanced up in time to see Seeker Cassandra making her way down the hill towards the Temple with a sturdy stride. The most trusted of the Divine’s agents was there to help, but Cassandra could still make her blood run cold.

She felt the chill and reached up to settle her scarf closer about her neck for added warmth. Beneath it lay the pendant, the key to open the Temple, a sunburst settled on her breast to mirror the one in the sky. She carefully drew it forward, holding it up to glint golden in the light a little as she picked her way down the snows of the hill. 

Eideann’s words came unbidden, like they sometimes did from time to time when she was contemplating her place in the word: _believe whatever feels right to you. Marjolaine chose who she became, and so can you._

She set her jaw, glancing up and letting the pendant drop to her breast again. She would choose. She had chosen. _This_ was why she was here. 

And then she heard it, a noise like thunder, the echo of leathery wings bouncing across the mountaintops and stirring the snow from the branches of nearby pine trees. Leliana froze, she heard a few of the expedition members gasp, and followed their gazes into the sky to the west.

It was there, a giant beast, that soared high overhead, wheeling in the updrafts that swept off the mountain peaks. Its shadow cast a dark silhouette across the snow-capped ground, blotting out the sun for a moment high above them. And then it dropped, disappearing behind the temple into the hills. 

Leliana focused, her heart pounding. 

_You faced an Archdemon,_ she thought to herself. _Be careful and you can do this as well._

“There she is,” she said quietly instead, forcing her voice to be steady, and one of the Templars in the party shifted nervously.

“Maker’s blood, an actual dragon…” he breathed. He spoke with an accent from the Free Marches, so he had joined them at Val Royeaux and not been in Ferelden for the Blight. The thought was not comforting. She had been hoping for a few more veterans when she had gone to gain the blessing of the Divine. Which is why her eyes slipped then further down the hill to where Divine Beatrix’s Right-Hand Cassandra was gazing with cold eyes at the valley beyond the Temple. 

“You said it nests in the cliffs behind the Temple?” she asked in a voice thick with Nevarra. Leliana pursed her lips. As the years went by, Divine Beatrix III had taken to sending Cassandra on missions further and further from the Grand Cathedral in the interests of the Chantry, rather than keeping her close as a bodyguard. Cassandra was there as her representative now, but also for another reason, and it was not hard to guess what that was. The Pentaghasts were one of the famed dragon hunting families of Nevarra. The moment that Leliana had reported a High Dragon living on the site, Cassandra’s accompanying them had been decided. 

Leliana nodded her affirmation, and the Seeker reached to draw her sword.

“Then we split up here.” It was as decisive as anything else Cassandra had ever said, so Leliana reached to tear the pendant key in the shape of the sun from her neck. She had never sealed it back into a prism, instead preferring the sun – like the Chantry sunburst. The entire temple shining in the sunlight only affirmed her opinion. This was a holy place.

She beckoned the nearest Chantry Sister, a scholar well known for her work in Alamarri research: Sister Petrine. The Sister recognized it, closed it in both hands with a severe, observant nod, and then drew back solemnly.

“You three,” Cassandra said sharply, pointing her sword towards a handful of Templar Knights, “you’re with us. The rest of you will escort the scholars inside the Temple to safety.” She looked back towards Leliana. “Is there an easy way up to the cliffs?” Leliana wet her lips, reaching for the bow at her back.

It had been Marjolaine’s, once, red dragonthorn inlaid with beautiful gold. She had watched Marjolaine end the life of a deer with it before. It had been the first message: sometimes we can give mercy. She tightened her fingers on the grip and met Cassandra’s dark Nevarran eyes. 

“There is a short path from the Temple. If we follow the exterior, we will come upon paths,” she assured her. “The ruins are set into the mountain. There’s a building that lead to the Urn.” 

Cassandra chewed on the inside of her lip in thought, then nodded, motioning for them to start off down the hill.

“The sooner this is done,” she said, “the better. The longer we wait, the more dangerous it will become.” 

It did not take long for that to become clear. As they drew closer, recollections of her last trip up those final bluffs washed over her. She turned her eyes from the strange gold veneer of the Temple, instead focusing on her other senses.

She could smell the pungent drakestone high up in the hills, caught and blown her way by the sharp, cold winds. She could hear the gentle whistle of that same wind through pines, making the hillside rustle with apprehension. Her heart was pounding in her chest, making it harder to breathe, despite the cold already constructing her air.

They found a mountain path that swept through the mountains upwards towards the top of the Temple, little more than a goat-path. The shrieking roar of the dragon echoed out across the hills again. Leliana slipped up the rocky path, skirting the shattered golden walls of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, until the stones turned to ashen scree and the path sharply dropped off.

She emerged over the top, pulse racing. It felt for the briefest of moments like climbing the Tower of Drakon not so many months ago. Her breath caught.

Cassandra came up alongside her, face severe. 

“Do you see it?” she murmured, peering out across the craggy cliffs. Leliana narrowed her gaze, slipping down alongside the shattered columns of the Temple bridge, keeping to the shadows and out of sight. The dragon had once nested above them on the mountain face, blocking the way forward. 

But it was not there now. She found herself panicking. She felt a bead of sweat roll down her forehead in spite of the chill, and swallowed hard, carefully reaching back to her quiver for an arrow to draw in Marjolaine’s bow. 

And then there was a loud wooshing noise, a heavy buffeting of wind, and she swung about just in time to see the High Dragon Andraste swooping down and catching up one of the Templars in vicious claws. The man screamed, was carried high into the air, and then left to drop, falling, weighed down by his armor, dragged back to earth until the screaming abruptly stopped and a cloud of ash erupted from the impact. 

“NOW! TO ME!” she heard Cassandra cry, and then she was running, darting between the columns, leather boots slipping under Chantry armor. The first arrow flew from her bow, straight and true towards the dragon, but it clattered from the scales. She drew another one and murmured a prayer to the Maker to protect them. 

Another of the Templars went down screaming as fire billowed out across the ashen fields. Leliana watched as the belched flames consumed him, and then the dragon turned next on her, racing forwards on clawed talons. Heat washed over her face, the beginning of the next spurt of fire.

“MOVE!” came a cry, but her feet would not shift. She stood, staring, waiting.

_Shall I die in fire like our Lady did?_

Something hit her hard, Cassandra, and she hit the stone pavement, air forced from her lungs as they collided with the rock. The fire barely missed them, and Cassandra dragged her back.

“What are you doing?!” Cassandra accused, panting and glaring up from around their cover. But she gave up on the accusations quickly enough. “There. That tower,” she said, nodding to the ruins of a columned tower rising up across the ashen field. “There’s shattered columns. We can get some height, some ground.” Leliana gave a nod, reaching for another arrow and then rising and slipping off to the side as Cassandra charged forward. 

In the distance she could see the tower rising in broken columns. She just had to reach it, get some height on the dragon which was still on the ground now. She heard the dragon roar and looked back, catching sight of Cassandra diving to tear through the creature’s wing. And then she sprinted, as hard as she could, for the ruins. 

She reached the tower in moments, gasping for breath and vaulting up onto the lowest stone, hauling herself up for a better vantage point. When she reached the highest point she could, she turned, drawing back her bow and aiming down the sight.

“Leliana!” Cassandra called. “Now!” 

She aimed for the eyes, the weakest point she could find, and let her arrow fly.

Its aim was true. The Maker saw it so. The arrow sank into the giant yellowed eye, and the dragon reared back, roaring.

And then it came for her. It swung about, tail lashing back and knocking Cassandra and the final Templar from their feet. It closed the distance between them, and Leliana stared, unable to move, unable to escape. The dragon roared, and Leliana took the only chance she had.

She jumped.

For a moment she was free-falling, and then she landed awkwardly on her feet, giving a sharp cry. Cassandra came running towards her, and Leliana dragged herself out the way as the dragon reared and stomped its feet back down, slamming it into the ashen ground where she had only just been. 

She scrabbled, pain lancing through her, sure she had sprained something. 

_I am the Maker’s child! I will not fail! I was chosen to reclaim the Urn for the world!_ she thought desperately, dragging her weight forward, clear. Cassandra was in the way then, meeting the High Dragon by diving atop its neck, clawing her way up, raising her sword as high as she could. 

Leliana escaped the ruined circle, which came toppling down as the dragon spun, and rolled clear, crying out in pain and anger. And then she reached for another arrow, now lying on her back. She drew back the bow, trying to aim, and Cassandra roared, stabbing down. The dragon came crashing through, almost hitting her, and she forced herself up, hurrying clear, limping in pain. Tears clouded in her eyes. 

The other Templar, the final one, joined her, scooping her up, shouldering her weight, and helping her limp clear. And then Cassandra gave a sharp cry, and Leliana watched her go hurtling across the field of ash, leaving a deep trench where she slid to end up lying some distance away. She groaned, tried to rise, and Leliana desperately looked back in time to see the dragon turning back to her with angry eyes. 

_No…_

The dragon drew upon them, leaping, its wings still carrying him that far, and the Templar trying to help her went down, crushed under massive talons. Leliana gave a cry, toppling.

And then she dragged herself backwards, trying to keep her distance, to flee. 

She was in the canyon between the cliffs, at her back the Temple. The dragon stalked her, and heat again filled the air, waves of deep darkness shimmering in waves so hot it seared away the chill of the snow. 

Leliana felt her faith falter. 

_I stood against the Archdemon!_

“Leliana!” she heard Cassandra cry. 

And then the dragon was upon her, and the air was too hard to breath. Her head swam, she could not move, and the dragon reared up.

She lay back, eyes wide, unable to drag herself back anymore, and drew a last breath, closing her eyes. At her back, so close and yet so far, the final Temple, where the Holiest of Holies stood. And she would never see it again.

Her whole world went black. Darkness. And it drew her in.

She felt like she was falling, down, down, into darkness. Then pain shattered the world. 

And then there was only one thing left, the most fleeting of thoughts:

_Oh…I was not special after all…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AUTHOR'S MASSIVELY LONG NOTES ON LORE:**  
>  (bullet points for ease here, rather than the usual paragraphs, because there is so much...)
> 
>  _Amgarrak's Weird Shit_  
>  \- There IS a Veil Tear in Amgarrak Thaig. That is CANON. And it DOES vanish when that blue bleedthrough happens.  
> -That weird mist is black and shifting and magical. Given the fact we see no darkspawn after this point except for three shrieks trapped in the blue, this feels like a blight barrier. It is DEFINITELY MAGICAL, because it shifts in really unnatural ways, and winds seem to hold it back. It's all over the Thaig's borders, like it's keeping the darkspawn out. It obviously isn't keeping anything else out.  
> -The golems are made using lyrium. The researchers at Amgarrak were trying to improve upon and recreate golems. The golem you gain as a follower is known as the RUNIC GOLEM, and since runes are made with lyrium and such, it feels like this lyrium explanation for its upgrades makes sense. It HAS been modified. This is NATE POV, so he is very ignorant on matters of magic and is muddling through (kinda like us! ;))  
> -Nathaniel is there because House Dace asked for Warden help. House Dace is in conflict with House Helmi, which is doing quite well for itself. Eideann and Alistair are not friends with Bhelen - he actually doesn't really like them - so Nate is having to play politics just by sticking around there. He knows this so he's acting in those interests as well.
> 
>  _Leliana and the Temple of Sacred Ashes_  
>  -Cassandra's backstory is Canon, as is Divine Beatrix sending her on various jobs as she aged.  
> -The Year is 9:31 Dragon, almost 9:32. The Ten Year Gathering happened in 9:22. Divine Beatrix III passed away in 9:33, or 9:34, so she is very old at this point. Her representation is based on references from Rhys meeting her at sometime around this timeframe, from _Asunder_.  
>  -Leliana's still adjusting here to her own place in the world, her own mission and purpose, and how all that has come before fits into everything. She goes to the Temple to try and fulfill that purpose, which she believes is bringing the Urn back to the world, since she was there to find it in the first place.  
> -Sister Petrine is a well known Chantry scholar and contemporary of Brother Genitivi, with well known works focusing on Avvar and Alamarri culture, Ferelden Culture, and more controversial topics regarding Chantry behavior, the formation and treatments in Circles and the Templar Order, and also Tevinter. She seems an ideal person to have along on this trip, so...she is. I actually do not know who else went on this trip, just that Leliana did, and so I went with Cassandra and Sister Petrine for logical reasons.  
> -Leliana herself says at the end of Origins that they needed the Divine's approval for their expedition. :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian learns some news from Starkhaven; Sidonie confronts her grief about Bethany; some tense words lead to an argument between Sidonie and Carver; Isabela makes a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence (mild); language; mentions of sexual harassment
> 
> Comments always welcome and appreciated! :D

Ever since the word had come of the massacre at Starkhaven, he had been angry. His nights were sleepless or filled with horrible dreams. His days were spent torn between anguish at the Maker for having done nothing, and fear that he would be next. At other times, he might have found solace in prayer – it had brought him peace before when times had been difficult. But they had never been _this_ difficult. Now, when he knelt and bowed his head and asked for guidance, instead of the resounding solitude that could bring him inner peace, he heard only the empty silence of an abandoned world. 

What good was a Maker who had decided not to care.

The Chantry Brother in him reminded him quietly that it was his duty to spread the Maker’s will and in so doing win back his affections. In order to know when his Chant echoed in all corners of the world, the Maker must be listening to them. And if that were so, he could not have abandoned them. That meant that the deaths of his family in Starkhaven was the Maker’s will. That was a crueler truth to accept.

He crossed the tiles of the cloister, letting his gaze slide to the statue of Andraste in magnificent gold. 

_What did you think, my Lady, when you burned atop the pyre? Did you curse his name, or did you smile and accept the sword, the flame?_ The statue had no answers, so he turned his face away and headed instead towards the back chambers where he might find some privacy.

His chambers were austere, a small bed and a table to hold his things, and a washstand in the corner for when he woke. He stared at it with quiet eyes, then carefully dipped his fingers into the lukewarm water and splashed a little into his face. 

_You are upset. Accept the Maker’s will,_ the Grand Cleric, Elthina, had told him the night he had first received the news. He had tried to remember, tried to accept, but it felt wrong, like letting them win. Even as a daily mantra, there was no softness in his heart.

A gentle knock sounded at his door, and he turned, a little startled.

“Enter,” he called, drying his dripping face on a rough wool towel and despairing that the wash had done nothing to cleanse his mind, his soul. The door cracked open a little, and a Chantry Sister poked her head in.

“A missive,” she said, holding forth a paper. It bore the seal of the Chantry in red wax. “It came for you from Starkhaven.” Sebastian drew a deep breath, then reached for the paper, dreading what fresh miseries might be received. When he tore the seal from the paper, though, unfurling the letter, he found it to be more an official telling. It held little by way of condolences, and nothing about his family in particular. Instead it was a report, like someone had clinically gone through and removed all the emotion from the details of the fallout of his cousin’s coup. It was a list of circumstances – who had fallen, where the political situation stood, which side the Chantry had taken – and a list of the repercussions across his City-State. He glowered at the page, hands shaking a little. Even the Circle was burning, its mages fled and gone. He fisted the paper into a ball in his hands and then glanced back at the Sister who was watching him.

“Is there nothing to be done?”

“Until the Viscount will see me, nothing,” he said bitterly. “And with the Grand Cleric advising temperance in this matter, I am alone, Sister.” The woman bowed her head slightly.

“The events at Starkhaven…”

“I shall have justice for my family,” he interrupted her, voice cold. Her eyes were quiet, as she gave her reply.

“If it is the Maker’s will.” Then she clasped her hands before her. Sebastian sighed, tossing aside the paper and burying his head in his hands, raking fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath.

The Maker’s will…what did he care anymore for the Maker’s will. There was no comfort in knowing even his god wanted his family dead.

There was a scuttling down the hall, and he looked up in time to see one of the Chantry acolytes, a young boy in robes just a little too big for him, appear in the doorway of his chambers. 

“Brother Sebastian,” he said, eyeing the pair of them up nervously like he was unsure if he was meant to greet them both first or just get to it. He finally just decided on delivering his message, so he ducked his head and stumbled over the words. “There’s a lady here to see you. She said she had something to tell you. Said it was pretty important.” Sebastian narrowed his eyes.

“Did she say her name?” he asked the boy, who stepped back as he came to the door.

“No, Brother Sebastian,” he said. “She was dressed in a red coat though.”

 _Like the mercenaries,_ Sebastian thought, and gritted his teeth. It could be a trap. Or…

Or maybe not. He sighed and nodded.

“Alright. Where is she?”

“In the chancel,” he replied, and shifted out the way as Sebastian made use of his door. Behind him, the Chantry Sister followed, her footsteps gentle on the tile of the floor.

***

She felt vulnerable and bare, like she had come unshod before Andraste herself with all her secrets on her lips to speak the moment she was called upon to confess. She felt angry, and frightened, and uncomfortable. 

She should not be in the Chantry.

She had been avoiding it, as long as she could. This was not just the Maker’s house, where he might see straight to her soul, or the might that would see her chained if they knew magic flowed in her veins. This was a place of ghosts, those lost.

This was Bethany’s place.

She knelt in an opulent house once built to house Magisters, and swallowed hard as she bent her head over the large golden feet of the statue of Andraste crowned atop the chancel. Behind her, a dais for the Grand Cleric stood with the Chant of Light atop a wooden lectern. Chantry Sisters were singing hymns. It made her feel unsteady. She shivered, feeling a wash of cold, and was glad she had left Carver to his own devices after their business with Meeran was done. After making sure she was tidy enough, she had come alone to the Chantry, to make her peace with so many things.

Her eyes flickered up the golden statue towards Andraste’s stern visage, and she felt the tears at the corner of her eyes. She drew a deep breath, blinking them away, and then swallowed, letting it all out. It felt like clearing her lungs of toxins; for a moment she was able to breathe again. It was not Andraste she saw above her, but Bethany, gentle eyes fields of blue, black hair about her face in gentle waves of silk, a quiet smile too soft for the world there for all to see. 

She felt a tear trickle down her cheek.

“It is my fault, Bethany,” she murmured, and then wet her lips, rising from her knees. “Forgive me. Rest in peace at the Maker’s side.”

“Excuse me, my child.” She started, turning about to see an elderly woman standing atop the steps in the robes of the Grand Cleric of Kirkwall. She had eyes that were sharp and flinty, under a matronly bun and a face softened in age. Sidonie swallowed, stepping back from the statue and watching the Grand Cleric in silence a moment. “I am Elthina, Grand Cleric of Kirkwall. You…have a familiar look to you,” the woman said softly, “and yet I have not seen you here before, I think.” 

“I have only just arrived from Ferelden,” Sidonie said quietly, keeping herself vague. Elthina gave her a gentle, calming look, her eyes flickering a moment to the statue of Andraste before turning back on Sidonie knowingly.

“I understand,” she said quietly. “It was a near thing, what happened in Ferelden. But in the end, the Maker stepped in.” Sidonie felt a ripple of anger.

Where was the Maker when Lothering fell? Where was the Maker when Bethany was murdered by the ogre? Where was the Maker as their village burned and their neighbours ran screaming into the night? Where was the Maker as the Blight drove them from the south in droves, as Carver and Sidonie sold themselves into indentured servitude in exchange for entry to a city so full of Templars she was scared to step foot outside most days and with such a tattered Veil she was scared to sleep most nights?! Where was the Maker then?

No, it was not the Maker who had stood against an Archdemon. She knew the stories coming across the Waking Sea. She knew damn well who that had been. Queen Eideann Cousland and King Alistair Theirin, who had told her once long ago they were the last two Wardens in Ferelden. 

She had made them a promise to save those she could. She had tried, Maker, she had tried. And they had tried as well. 

She swallowed, hard, thinking of that meek man and that bold, severe woman, and she shook her head at the Grand Cleric.

“The Hero of Ferelden stopped the Blight,” she said curtly. “The Maker had nothing to do with it.”

Elthina had heard arguments like that before, and she recognized as well the grief that was gnawing at Sidonie’s heart. 

“Sometimes,” she said gently, “the Maker chooses the most unlikely vessels.” And considering those vessels were a couple of ragtag Grey Wardens she had rescued in a pub fight, Sidonie almost laughed aloud at the thought. “We never know whose hand he may favor,” Elthina added softly. Sidonie tore her gaze away.

 _That day he favored a darkspawn’s hand, and now my sister is dead,_ she thought. Elthina gave a bow of head, and then drew away, softly conferring upon her the blessings of a Maker that had stolen everything away. 

Sidonie watched her go, then sighed. Atop the steps, she saw movement, a man in armor hurriedly following the path around down to the Chantry floor. She recognized the armor, a vest of interlocking chain over a sheepskin tunic in the style of Starkhaven. He gave her a curious look as he crossed to the chancel steps to join her, so she waited, forcing the anger away. He too had lost something after all.

His eyes were the truest blue she had ever seen, like sapphires almost. His hair, a smooth auburn was slicked back away from his face. He paused before her, considering her mercenary coat, then pursed his lips.

“An acolyte said you had sent for me,” he said in a voice thick with Starkhaven. Sidonie gave a little nod. “Why?”

“Will…anyone smite me if I tell you I killed the men who wronged your family?” she asked him softly. He froze a moment, his breath catching, and stared at her, so she stared back, feeling the tension in the moment there. Saying the words out loud…

She did not like killing. She did not want to be a killer. Circumstances had forced her hand. There, before the statue of the Maker’s Bride, she admitted it.

“Excuse me, who are - ?” The man paused, then his gaze narrowed. “My post to the Chanter’s Board?” he asked. “Did her Grace let that stay? I thought for sure no one even read – but you say you’ve…killed them?” He had not been expecting it then, after all was said and done. Sidonie gave a small nod, shifting her weight to the other foot, aware how her eyes must be red-rimmed and tired. The man seemed to shrink, his shoulders sagging a little under the weight of relief, like he had been too stiff and rigid before. “You…have my eternal gratitude, Serrah,” he told her quietly, hanging his head a little. He turned then towards the chancel railing, placing both hands on it firmly like it would keep him standing, and raised his face to the statue of Andraste towering above them. Sidonie blinked, then turned to face the statue as well, standing beside him.

“It is comforting to think my parents might now rest easily in their graves,” he told her quietly. Sidonie thought of Bethany, and hoped she was resting easily as well, though she could not be so convinced. What it would take to see that through…

“Who sent these mercenaries?” she asked him quietly, turning her head and feeling her hair in its loose ponytail shift at the back of her collar. The man just ran his hands into his auburn hair and grimaced.

“My family,” he told her, “has ruled Starkhaven for six generations. We have enemies, but none who would identify themselves openly. A distant cousin of mine is claiming rulership now, but he is…a bit simple. He can be no more than a pawn in this plot.” Sidonie considered him. 

“I have a habit of running into Kings and Queens,” she said softly, and he looked to her. “Surely you have a guess as to who was behind it.” Her reasons for knowing were not entirely selfless. Retribution would come, and she would need to know as much as possible before that happened. She could not count on the Red Iron for this. There was only so much she was willing to trust Meeran – very, very little, actually – and so she was on her own to navigate the treacherous waters. 

The Prince of Starkhaven, the third royal acquaintance she had, bowed his head.

“My parents were always…prudent…in how they handled our nobles. They did not allow rivalries or resentments to flourish.” It struck a chord. She thought of Loghain, of the manhunt for Grey Wardens, and the death of King Cailan. That moment had changed everything forever, she just had not realized it at the time. 

She had learned that lesson. She sighed, leaning on the railing herself and crossing her arms.

“The attack must have come from outside,” the Prince of Starkhaven said shortly. “Kirkwall is our largest trading partner. I came back here to find support for my claim, and perhaps for a clue as to who is behind this foul deed.” 

Sidonie was silent a moment, considering, and then she finally looked up towards Andraste’s face.

“Your parents probably don’t care much at this point,” she said softly, “but I hope you sleep a bit easier.” He gave her a quiet look, solemn, and sighed.

“Yes,” he said. “I hope I will.” He drew a deep breath. “Loss is…never an easy burden to bear. Who was it, that you came to pray for today?”

“My little sister,” Sidonie said softly, unable to look at him. “We…we lost her in the Blight. We lost everything when we fled, even her.”

“Ah.” For a moment there was only the gentle echoing of the Chant in the eaves high above. And then there was the jingle of a purse, which caused her to look down, and then blink as her payment was pressed into both her hands. He folded her fingers about it gently, meeting her eyes. “Thank you,” he said. “Consider this an advance.” She blinked and he released her hands. “When I have secured my lands again, you will be paid royally.” Sidonie closed her fingers tight about the small purse and clutched it to her chest. “What name do you go by?” he asked. She sighed.

“Sidonie,” she replied. “Sidonie Hawke.” He smiled, gave a nod.

“Sidonie,” he repeated, and then gave a small courtly bow of head. “You may call me Sebastian Vael.” The irreverent part of her mind wanted to give a ridiculous curtsy and giggle about how much a pleasure it was, just to break the ludicrous scene before it got out of hand. Sebastian solved the problem for her, backing away. “Now, if you will excuse me, Serrah Hawke, I must make a meeting with the Viscount and petition him for aid to a fellow city.” He drew back, and she watched him go before glancing to the purse in her hands. And then at last she looked once more to the visage of the Maker’s Bride, and sighed.

“Oh Bethany…” 

Maker, she needed a drink.

***

When he caught sight of the back of Sidonie’s head at the make-shift bar counter within the Hanged Man, he was both relieved she was alright and irritated to find her inebriated. For the moment, he thought of Gamlen, and it was not a comparison that sat well with him.

Sidonie was clutching a tankard of the Hanged Man’s finest piss-poor ale, the sort that gave people cramps, the runs, or worse, and was staring into it with all the focus of a disinterested guardsman. He crossed the floorboards towards her, navigating the space between the rickety tables, and reached to put a hand on her shoulder.

“Sister.” She was slow to sit up, and stank of ale, and Carver wrinkled his nose at the sight as she looked around with bleary eyes, hair falling into her face a little. “Maker, what did you do?” 

She shoved the tankard away, then turned her head, laying one of her palms flat on the countertop while reaching into the loose inner pockets of her mercenary coat. She drew forth a metal coin, which she tapped on the countertop a few times. Carver peered at it, then at Sidonie.

“This,” his sister said in a quiet voice, “is a promise that we haven’t kept.” Carver let out a sigh, then gritted his teeth.

“Sidonie, where’s the money from the job?” he asked, reaching for the medallion. She closed her fist about it so he could not take it.

“You see, when I make a promise, Carver, I keep my promises.” 

“We didn’t promise,” Carver said flatly, moving her tankard out of reach despite her protests. “We told her maybe. That is not a promise.”

“Maybe I should have saved Bethany. Maybe I should be the dead one. Maybe I should have…should…maybe…” She trailed off, eyes full of tears sparkling in the dim light.

“Alright, enough,” he said sharply, feeling a pang of pain he battled back. He felt a sinking suspicion. “Sidonie, did you drink the money?” She did not look at him.

“I went to the Chantry,” she said instead. “I looked at Andraste, and I didn’t see the Bride of the Maker. I saw a statue that people hide behind. I saw…I saw…” She staggered over the words again.

“Sidonie - !” Carver snapped sharply, and she reached into her coat to draw out a pouch that, thankfully, still jingled with gold. He relieved her of it, tucked it away at his belt and then sighing, bracing both arms on the counter. He did not look to her. “This is not how she would have wanted to see you,” he said quietly. Sidonie shifted on the barstool, unfurling her fist and turning the amulet from the witch over and over again in her hands. 

“I let her die. Mother is right.” Carver exhaled slowly and shook his head, glancing to her with narrowed eyes.

“Stop acting like this. You’re as bad as bloody Gamlen,” he spat. “It isn’t always about you.”

“No. It isn’t,” she agreed, which startled him. He had not seen her so drunk since their father had died and she had spent the night pouring her heart out to the barkeeper at the Dane’s Refuge. He had no idea how to handle her like this. It had been Bethany to bring her back then.

“Mother,” he said curtly, “will not be happy when you come home stinking of ale.”

“Not going home. Been thinking,” she replied. He shook his head.

“Maker…”

“We need those maps,” she continued. Carver was confused a moment, and then suddenly it hit him what she meant. He glared at her.

“You are _not_ going to say what I think you’re going to say…” he breathed. Sidonie just bit at her lip.

“We _need_ them. And the reason we won’t go get them is because of me. It’s all my fault. But you’re right. It isn’t all about me. So this time, forget about me. Let’s…let’s do it because we have to.”

“We don’t _have_ to do anything!” He felt a wash of panic. She was actually suggesting helping that apostate Warden break his friend out of the Gallows in a city that would hang them all if they were caught. Maker’s blood! “We can just…forget it, or try asking around. We could look for other Grey Wardens. Maker, Sidonie, we _know_ Grey Wardens, or at least have met some.” She gave a pathetic laugh.

“Dear Queen Eideann and King Alistair of Ferelden. Remember me?” she mocked, reaching again for the tankard. He pulled it further from her grasp, ignoring her dark look. “Carver, we don’t have a choice. We’re running out of _time_. You know that.” He gave her a shake of head. 

“You’re going to cross the Templars,” he spat. “The _fucking_ Templars! And if they catch us, they will string us up, you, and me, and Varric, and that bastard of a healer, and his friend, and then Gamlen and Mother too! All because you’re so desperate to go face to face with darkspawn again!” Sidonie glared at him. “And why are we in this situation at all?! Because…because of Uncle Gamlen’s debts. And here you are, drinking yourself into oblivion just like him!” He looked away in desperation, trying to find the words to convince her this was madness, a fool’s errand, and one that would cost them everything. “This… _Warden_ …” he hissed. “He doesn’t care about you, or me, or Mother. He cares only about himself and his friend. It’s dangerous! It could cost us everything! And it’s all because some mage decided that his agenda is more important that everyone else’s lives!”

He knew in an instant he had gone too far. He felt the anguish tear through him at the realization of what exactly had escaped him. He paused a moment, sensing Sidonie had gone far too still to be alright. And his heart, full of Bethany and anger and fear, skipped a beat as well. He struggled to compensate with words.

“We can’t pick up and leave this time. We can’t flee somewhere else. We can’t afford to. This time…this time when things go wrong, we die, Sidonie. This time…”

“This time you help a mage and you die?” she offered coldly, and when he looked to her, oxblood eyes were shining with a fierce drunken rage. “This time it’s just not worth it to you? You think I don’t know that? You think everything I do isn’t shaped by what they might do to me if they found out? I don’t want to help him. I don’t want to go put my neck on the line for a man they can track, a man who has grown up in a completely different world, or for his Warden friend who thinks because I’m an apostate I should want to free the world. I _want_ to be safe,” she hissed. “I _want_ to be away from this place, somewhere where everything is normal and I’m not living under the thumb of Meeran and Athenril trying to step carefully enough no one rats me out. Short of selling myself, Carver, I have no other options. And I thought long and hard on this one. I _still_ have no more options. What’s the alternative? Wait to be found? I will not wait to be found.” 

“And what about us?” Carver snapped. “What about Mother? What about everyone you know? We will fall with you when your mad plans fail.”

“Would you rather I turned myself in?!” she demanded archly. “Would you rather I walked up to the Gallows and held out my arms for the cuffs and requested I be taken to a cell? Maybe if I’m lucky that’s all that would happen!” 

“Maybe I would! People would stop holding it over us then! It’s always being careful for your sake, watching out for what might happen to you! And still you’re reckless, like it’s easy. Well I’m done caring about what might happen to you!” he roared. And for the briefest of moments that hung between them in the thick air, before pain blossomed across his face and he staggered back, rather by surprise, bringing his hand up to his smarting cheek.

Sidonie was standing, though he did not remember her rising, her chest heaving with breath as she snarled at him like a cornered dog. 

“And _I_ am done caring about what might happen to _you_ ,” she said through clenched teeth. Carver opened his mouth to speak, but she shoved him back, so hard he actually _was_ forced back a few steps. He was far too solid to get knocked down by her, not anymore. “Get the fuck out of my sight, Carver. _Now_.” 

“Sidonie, I didn’t mean – ”

“Like Mother didn’t mean? I know, already. It’s all my fault.” She wavered a little from the drink, watching him with angry eyes. “Leave, now, before something bad happens.” Carver gave her frightened look. She had never said something so ominous to him before, but he knew it for a warning. He could feel her magic in the air, even if she was not using it to hurl spells. And that was dangerous. 

So he held up his hands, and stepped back.

“Fine,” he spat, shaking with rage. “Fine. Do what you want. Get yourself caught. Have fun with your mages,” he spat, before stalking off towards the door through a group of raiders standing by the entrance. One of them gave a cry of annoyance as he barreled through, but he did not care. Get out. Get away. He was done with all of it. 

***

She had not seen such a display in the tavern since her arrival in Kirkwall, and frankly, she was glad for the excitement, because it distracted Lucky and his men long enough to let her slip off towards the bar for a straight whisky. She filed it away on her usual tab, since coin was not something she carried about with her at the moment, and was promptly given a wooden mug of Mackay’s Single Malt which she went to down.

And that was about the time Lucky managed to catch up to her again. His hand came down on the top of the mug, and he sniffed.

“You owe us, Isabela,” he announced firmly. She raised an eyebrow, glancing sidelong to him.

“Well, Lucky,” she said, sliding her cup from under his grasp and downing the shot, motioning for more. “I’ll tell you what. Since the information you gave me was worth nothing, that’s what I’ll pay you.” The bartender refilled her mug, and she shifted to lift it again, but Lucky slammed his hand back down atop the rim, pinning it down. She let out a frustrated sigh, glaring to him.

“Me and my boys,” Lucky spat, “will get our money’s worth, bitch!” Isabela raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she cooed, releasing her mug and reaching instead for his hand. He gave a sharp cry as she shifted, smacking his head down on the bar and then shoving him away. One of his men caught hold of her, so she kicked back and knocked him aside too, sending him sprawling. A third took aim at her with the whisky bottle, which shattered against the counter as she ducked. Amidst a rain of glass, she trippedhim up and sent him over too. And then her hands had drawn her knives in an instant, even as Lucky reached for his sword. She had not needed to use that move since she had last made port in Antiva. She gave him a smirk, the point of her blade resting against Lucky’s throat. “Tell me, Lucky,” she said in a voice like warm silk. “Is this worth dying for?”

Lucky made no reply. Instead he backed up, carefully lowering his hand from his sword, and motioned for his men to leave. They staggered back, almost toppling over the drunk woman who had been intimidating people when they had first entered, and Isabela gave a small laugh. She flipped her knives back into their sheaths and collected her drink.

“I didn’t think so.”

Drinking was one of the finer things in life now. Especially after the loss of the Siren’s Call. Maker, running aground on the rocks of the Wounded Coast, nearly dashed to pieces and hounded all the way by bloody dreadnoughts.

Light flashed, their cannons booming, their black powder sending metal casings of explosives arcing over her deck. How many crewmen had gone down with the ship that day? She had lost more than half. And those that had survived…

Casivir, her First Mate, she’d rescued once from a prison in Val Chevin. She had left him on the docks when they had made shore, both of them going their own way to stay safe. Where he was now…she didn’t know. Hayder, though…she knew where Hayder was: licking Castillon’s boots and trying to get in good with the Felicisma Armada by bringing her in, pinning the blame on her that it had all gone wrong. 

So…terribly…wrong.

She downed another drink, then looked back to the woman who had been throwing punches when she first arrived. She was pretty enough, dark hair half pulled back – loose from some harrowing adventure. Isabela made up a story about tumbling a nobleman in the middle of the Hightown Market to fill in the gaps. Her eyes though…Maker, they were the color of blood, unsettling and severe. And she was drinking too.

And more importantly, she still had a bottle. The bartender was not refilling her mug after her little spat.

So Isabela sidled over, shifting to lean against the counter beside where the woman had taken a seat on one of the stools, and she casually poured herself a drink from the poor ale sitting out on the counter. Not whiskey, but better than nothing.

The woman looked up, but only after a moment. Isabela sampled the ale, then smiled. 

“Winners should drink together,” she said at the woman’s flat look. There was a pause, and then she earned a small smile in return. The woman held up her drink to be refilled, and Isabela obliged, and the pair of them drank a toast. “Not a bad hit, all said and done. Hard to faze a man that size.” The woman shrugged.

“I don’t think he was expecting it,” she said in a voice that was a little low and sultry, in a friendly, bedroom sort of way. It made Isabela give a low hum of appreciation to hear it. “Anyway, he had it coming.” A man getting handsy perhaps? Or an insult taken too far?

“Mm, they usually do,” Isabela agreed, twisting to lean against the bar on one hand instead. “You’re new around here, aren’t you?” The woman shrugged, like the truth did not matter. Isabela supposed that was fair. “Welcome,” she said in a friendly manner, “and keep your wits about you. You’re nothing but tits and arse to the men in this place, and they won’t hesitate to grab at both.” The woman grinned, giving a soft chuckle and downing her ale.

“Speaking from experience, are we?” she said, giving Isabela one of _those_ looks. Oooh, at last someone willing to play the game. Isabela laughed.

“After a few broken fingers here and there, they got the idea,” she replied, “but I assume you know that trick already.” She set down the mug a moment and gave a small bow. “I’m Isabela. Previously Captain Isabela. Sadly, without my ship, the title rings a bit hollow.” The woman nodded, smirking a little, then held out a hand to shake.

“Sidonie Hawke,” she introduced herself. Isabela considered her a moment.

“You’re Fereldan, aren’t you? You have that look about you.” Sidonie gave a nod.

“That’s right,” she said, peering into her tankard. 

“I was in Denerim not too long ago,” Isabela mused. “Fereldans always handy to have for a drink, some cards, or a fight.” Sidonie settled back a little into her seat.

“Are we?”

“You might be just who I’m looking for, after your display from before,” Isabela said. Now she had thought of it, she could not shake the idea. 

She had challenged Hayder to a duel on a whim, to get him off her back. She had not expected him to accept, and it made her suspicious. In fact, she was there that night for a bit of liquid courage. Before long, she would have to go off and meet him, and put an end to this Castillon nonsense. 

But this woman…Sidonie…she could fight. And she seemed more than willing to play along. A bit of backup was not cheating. In fact, a duelist _should_ have a second, after all.

“Can’t _anyone_ fix their own lives around here?” Sidonie laughed before sighing into her cups. It had the ring of a more personal problem. Isabela shrugged.

“Must be something in the water,” she offered, topping up the mugs with the last of the ale. “Someone,” she explained as she poured, “from my past has been pestering me. I’ve arranged for a duel. If I win, he leaves me alone. But…I don’t trust him to play fair. I need someone to watch my back.” Sidonie was watching her with an intrigued look. Isabela paused, waiting, hand hovering over her own mug. And then Sidonie took a sip of the ale and leaned onto the counter like she were arranging a business proposition.

“Why a duel?” she asked. Isabela smirked, leaning against the bar herself and picking up her mug to swirl the ale within about in a circle.

“I like duels,” she replied. “It’s what I do. And if I win, he’ll be dead. Problem solved. ” She sipped her ale and Sidonie tipped her head back, closing those oxblood eyes a moment before grinning.

“So you make a habit of scrapping, then?” Isabela rolled her eyes.

“You saw me talking to Lucky, right? Those boys couldn’t handle simple information gathering. I can’t trust the riffraff in this place to do anything right.” She finished the ale, setting it down and crossing her arms. “But you, you’re different, and I like different.” 

“Who’s this person you’ve arranged to meet?” the woman asked her, and Isabela sighed.

“His name is Hayder,” she explained, careful with how much she said here. She did not know this woman after all, and had no idea how much she could trust her. “We worked together back in Antiva. He’s never liked me. He’s been asking about me all around Kirkwall. Thought I’d get it over with and…meet him face to face.” Sidonie considered her a moment, eyes sparkling, and then carefully mused over it while finishing her own drink. When she was done, she slowly set down the tankard and then carefully pushed herself up away from the bar.

“I think I could manage watching your back,” she said simply. Isabela felt a warm flush of amusement and smirked.

“I’ll bet,” she murmured, and then gave a small laugh before her smile faded. “I’ve arranged to meet Hayder in Hightown after dark.” Sidonie pursed her lips.

“Well that doesn’t give us much time then.” 

“No,” Isabela agreed, and gave a nod. “Thanks for this, all the same.”

“Hey,” Sidonie replied, “didn’t fancy going home anyway.” Isabela slipped through the tables towards the door, Sidonie in tow.

“So,” she said as she opened the portal wide to admit them both, “who _was_ that man you were testing your strength on?” Sidonie just gave a soft laugh that rang like music and bells. Sweet Maker, that was a pleasant sound, like seagulls, or creaking wood, or splashing waves, or the hollow noise of the tide against the docks. Sidonie’s eyes were sparkling again.

“Oh, him?” she asked playfully. “No one important. Just my little brother.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela and Sidonie deal with Hayder before finding themselves having to run from the guard; Sidonie and Fenris have an honest conversation; Eideann and Alistair keep some promises long overdue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: sex (mild); violence; gore
> 
> Comments always welcome and appreciated <3

She did not like this. It was too quiet, and well past their arranged meeting time. About her, the Hightown terraces were uncharacteristically quiet. Only a light breeze was rustling the cypress trees, a gentle hush like a chorus of tiny whispers. 

She turned on her heel, crossing her arms, and glanced sidelong to Sidonie Hawke, who was leaning against one of the marble columns standing uselessly in the center of the square by the whispering cypress trees, eyes narrowed. 

“Hayder hasn’t show up,” the woman said flatly. 

“No one has,” Isabela sighed. “I don’t like this.” Sidonie’s eyes slipped up towards the Viscount’s Keep steps. 

“I don’t like this? That’s right up there with ‘what could possibly go wrong?’,” she sniffed. 

Isabela rolled her eyes and shook her head.

And then she heard it, boots on the stone. She reached for her knives. Sidonie was quicker, halberd in her hand. Maker, she looked like she knew how to use the thing too. 

Three soldiers, two masked, approached with cold eyes. Isabela did not recognize them, but it was obvious to anyone they had come looking for her. 

“That’s the wench we’re looking for,” the woman at their head announced. “Gut her.” Sidonie grimaced, shaking her head.

“I _knew_ this would happen.”

Isabela did not wait. She sprung into action. Their attackers were armed with melee weapons, and she had to get inside their range if she was going to do any damage. She slid in, dropping down under a swung of the first’s sword, and kicking the feet from under him. And then she was atop him, pinning him down with her knees, wrenching his helmet from his head to cut his throat in a raider’s smile. Then she rolled clear, hoisted herself up, and found the next coming straight for her.

Sidonie Hawke got in the way. Her halberd spun, knocking the soldier back, and then she jabbed hard with her spear-point until it buried itself under the armor of the nearest one. She ducked a swung, wrenched her spear free, and then knocked the attacker down with the axe-end buried in her back. And then there was only the one left. 

He took one look at them both and ran. Isabela sneered, flipping her knife over and then hurling it. Her aim had not changed. The knife blossomed from his back, and he fell, dead, to the flagstones. 

“Hayder sent them. Search the bodies,” Isabela said coldly, crossing to retrieve the knife. “I need to find out where he is.”

Sidonie Hawke gave a soft chuckle, then shook her head.

“We shouldn’t stay long,” she muttered. “The last thing I need is the Kirkwall City Guard hauling me in for a word with the Guard Captain.” Isabela sniffed, digging through the pockets of the fallen man who had tried to run and coming up with nothing except a purse of coins she casually pocketed.

She heard Sidonie behind her hit the flagstones and looked back to find the woman had toppled over while crouching to investigate the other two bodies. She raised an eyebrow and Sidonie just gave a wild laugh that echoed across the courtyard. 

“Stop asking me to bend over.”

“Wrong context,” Isabela smirked, then crossed to help.

The one who bore the slit throat had a paper tucked haphazardly under his breastplate. She ripped it free and unfurled it, finding a notice written in Antivan. Sidonie peered over her shoulder a moment before sitting back and shaking her head.

“Gibberish,” she muttered.

“No. Antivan.” She skimmed the words, then sighed, looking up with a dark glare. “Hiding in the Chantry and sending thugs to finish me off? Coward.” She glanced to Sidonie, who put out an arm as Isabela rose for help getting up. Isabela obliged, hauling her to her feet, until they stood nearly nose to nose. She smirked, shook her head at the woman, and then sighed. “I think you’ve had a bit too much for this.”

“I’m too poor to drink regularly enough to make it a habit,” Sidonie replied as Isabela drew back. “Anyway, I’m fine. I…want to hit something.” 

“In another life,” Isabela laughed, “you could have been a sailor.” Something dark passed over Sidonie’s face a moment, and she shook her head.

“No. Water makes me sick.” 

“You’ll be wanting more of it tonight,” Isabela said pointedly, and then beckoned for her to follow. “Let’s finish Hayder and then see about getting you home.” 

Hightown remained quiet after that. There were no civilians out, despite the fact it was not yet too late. Usually, in the evenings, the Kirkwall elite would have parties or salons with music and food and dancing. There were not any guards either. And that meant someone had dealt with them. Maker, she should have been paying more attention.

The Chantry was not far from the Viscount’s Keep where she had arranged for their duel to take place. She led the way quietly, wincing at the sound of their footsteps even muted as it was. Any moment might be a trap. 

She knew Hayder. She knew what he was like. It was entirely unrealistic to think he had not left a few more traps for her. He was hiding in the Chantry in case she brought friends and he had to retreat.

Hayder was step one to being free from Castillon’s hounds, however. He dogged her steps, ever since she had let that shipment go. The money she owed him still hung over her head. He was not willing to give her the chance to make up for it. Even if she found his relic again, after losing it in the storm with the dreadnoughts on her tail, there was no guarantee he would accept it as recompense now. Castillon was a hard-ass, and he had no love for her.

She chanced a glance back to Hawke as they reached the Chantry Courtyard, where more cypress trees were whispering and casting deep shadows that could hide any number of assailants. Behind the steps leading up to the building, up on more terraces, they could easily fall prey to archers. The Chantry was a defensible fortress at the heart of Kirkwall Hightown. It made her nervous.

Sidonie just strode out into the square, so Isabela followed, pursing her lips a little, keeping a watch for trouble.

As expected, it did not take long for it to find them. She heard the voice before she saw him descending the steps from the Chantry. 

“Isabela.” She narrowed her eyes and put a hand out to stop Sidonie from moving closer. “Should’ve known you’d find me here.”

“Hayder.” Sidonie glanced to her, but Isabela ignored her, simply shifting her weight a little, preparation for a fight she knew was coming. “Tell your men to burn the letters next time.”

“Castillion was heartbroken when he heard about the shipwreck,” Hayder said, ignoring her words. She heard the rustle of cloth, the creak of leather, and from the corner of her eye saw the raiders appearing like ghosts from about the courtyard as expected. She raised her chin a little. Hayder gave her a pale, thin little sneer. “You should have let him know you survived.”

“It must have slipped my mind,” she said quietly. He gave a false laugh, and then his voice went hard.

“Where’s the relic?” He had sailed under her once. She recalled him hauling on the lines, standing in the wind as they raced down the coastline from Antiva City on smuggling runs, jumping when Casavir barked an order to the crew. Here he was full of himself, arrogant, his purse heavy with Castillon’s coin, blood money. Her blood. She grimaced, tasting the betrayal in her mouth as bile she was forced to push back.

“I lost it,” she said. “Castillon’s just going to have to do without.” Something dangerous flashed in Hayder’s eyes. He scoffed, his lips twisting a little with emotion, and then shook his head.

“Lost it? Just like you lost a shipment of valuable cargo?” he asked. 

“They weren’t cargo, Hayder, they were people!” Isabela shot back, glaring at him now. She had set them free the moment she had learned she was hauling slaves, Fereldan refugees fleeing from the Blight. Her eyes slipped a moment to Sidonie Hawke, who was staring at Hayder with quiet eyes the color of blood. Fereldans, just like her. 

When she had lost those slaves, setting them free on the coastline, Castillon had been furious. It had cost her everything trying to make it safe again, but of everything she had done, letting those slaves free was one thing she would not regret. That had been a moment of goodness, when she was not a good person. And so she kept it, eyes narrowed, even though it chafed to weigh the cost to her own security. 

“Those slaves were worth a hundred sovereigns a head!” Hayder spat. “And you let them scurry off into the wilds! And now the relic’s gone too. Castillon won’t be happy to hear that.” 

Sidonie Hawke’s leather gloves creaked about the handle of her halberd, and for a moment Isabela thought she might turn away. But she stayed the course, instead giving a slight smile.

“Castillon isn’t a very happy person, is he?” she called. “Maybe he needs a new hobby?” Isabela felt a little twitch of a smile at her lips and soothed it away with a bath of anger and ferocity.

“There’s only one way to settle this,” she said grimly, and Hayder nodded.

The knife she had never sheathed after drawing it from the attacker’s back was true once again. Hayder moved, only just getting out of the way, and it caught his cheek, leaving a dark and bloody gash to spill out across his gaunt face. The knife hilt instead took his lieutenant by the throat, and she staggered back, then fell. Isabela drew her spare knife and charged as Hayder roared.

They converged in a single point, a riot of noise and clashing in the Chantry Courtyard, as blood spilled again before the sunburst at the end. 

And then a shockwave rippled out, and raiders were thrown to the flagstones. Isabela felt the impact shove her forward, and she looked back with wide eyes to see Sidonie Hawke standing, halberd in hand, at the center of a circle of fallen raiders, eyes closed, hand vertically before her face like she were concentrating. Isabela stared a moment, blinking, and then was forced back into the moment again as Hayder struggled to his feet and came for her, greatsword in hand. 

“Now you die, Isabela!” he roared.

Fire hit next. Isabela danced through the flames, and they licked at her skin, as she struck at Hayder, driving him back within his guard until his back hit the Chanter’s Board and he was trapped. And then, amidst the chaos, she ended him then and there. Her dagger found his heart, the other his throat, and he slumped in a bloody heap to the flagstones, leaving a smear across the Chanter’s Board of crimson shining wetly in the dark. Isabela flipped about, burying her knife in the nearest raider. 

Sidonie Hawke cut down the last – those that were not burning from the flames – with her halberd and then looked wearily to Isabela, who was gazing at her cautiously. The Chantry Courtyard was strewn with bodies. 

“Stab first, ask questions later?” she said pointedly. Isabela sighed, crossing towards her.

“Trust me, it’s better this way.” She gave her an intrigued look. “You’re a mage. I didn’t realize…” 

“Trust me, it’s better this way.” Fair enough. Isabela glanced back towards Hayder’s fallen form, and then sighed. “Castillon won’t hear about me from Hayder, but he’ll find me eventually.” There was nothing for it. Castillon was set, and his relic was important. If it was lost at the bottom of the sea…Maker… “I’ll just have to get him the relic,” she muttered. Sidonie raised an eyebrow, watching as Isabela went through the pockets of the fallen raiders. She did not help, and that was probably for the best, because she did look exhausted, and the alcohol had settled into her system enough to make her a little bleary.

“You hired Lucky to track down information on it,” she said. Sharp little thing, even half-drowned in whiskey. Isabela just sighed, pocketing the valuables and moving along to the next person with a practiced efficiency.

“That’s right. He insisted he knew everything that was going on in Kirkwall. He lied.” She grinned, rising and crossing to Sidonie to press her half of the collected gold into her hand. “I bet he doesn’t even know everything going on in his pants.” Sidonie looked at the gold in her hand, then tucked it away into a pocket and grimaced.

“So…who is Castillon?” she asked. Isabela pursed her lips. She was already in deep into the mess at this point. She may as well divulge a little more. Sidonie had yet to turn on her after all.

“He’s a powerful merchant based in Antiva,” she said, crossing her arms. “I believe he has ties to the Felicisima Armada. I used to work for him. The jobs mostly involved smuggling lyrium, jewels, or the occasional criminal acquaintance.” She sighed. “He…paid well.” 

“And then you ended up here,” Sidonie said, glancing to the raiders. “Because your ship was destroyed?” Isabela grimaced.

“There was a storm. The ship ran aground on the reefs near the city along the Wounded Coast. I…managed to make it ashore. Most of my men weren’t as lucky.” Maker, she banished the thoughts of seeing crew she had served with all her life drowning, or impaled on splintered wood, as the Siren had beckoned them to the bottom of the sea. She was clad in rough sail-cloth and her boots, wearing everything she had been wearing that day she had run aground. The winds had been howling, tearing through the sails. Even a practiced hand could not keep them from the rocks. And the dreadnoughts. The scent of the explosive powders. 

It reminded her instead of Rivain, of a childhood long ago. That she pushed away too, bitterly, and instead she sighed.

“I…knew some of those men almost ten years. Poor sods.” Sidonie met her gaze like she were mulling things over, and then she gave a small nod, eyes shining with drink and determination. 

“If getting the relic gets Castillon off your back, then I’ll help you retrieve it.” A generous offer. More than she deserved. Isabela stared a moment, then gave a soft laugh of disbelief.

“I still don’t know where it is,” she admitted, “but you’ll be the first to know if I hear anything.” Having a chummy mage pal was likely to serve her well if nothing else, and she liked Sidonie. Good for a laugh and good in a fight. Genuine. The sort of person you could rely on. Or…so it seemed from first impressions. Sidonie gave a nod.

The moment was shattered by a shout from the streets behind them, where the Viscount’s Keep towered over Hightown. 

“Shit! Guardsmen!” Isabela hissed, looking about at the carnage in the square. “They’ll find it for sure.” Sidonie swallowed hard, thinking, then looked desperately to Isabela before catching her wrist and pulling her along towards the steps to the noble estate terraces.

“Come on! This way!” she said forcefully. Isabela was not in a position to complain. They fled up the steps just as armored guardsmen came stampeding into the square, and disappeared around the corner down another lane lined with the whispering cypress trees. Sidonie shoved her down towards an abandoned estate in a rather obvious state of disrepair. Isabela felt her back hit the door, which echoed a little across the street, and then Sidonie reached to open it. They tumbled through, toppling onto the carpets, and the door slammed behind them. 

Isabela looked up at Sidonie, sprawling atop her, their breasts pressed together as they both stared. And then Sidonie cracked a grin, gave a laugh, and sat back. And as she did so, a blade came to her throat. Her oxblood eyes faded from laughter to a quiet dangerous burn of warm brown, and followed the blade up. Isabela laid back, tilting her head up to catch sight of an elven man standing over her entirely in black, with a shock of smooth white hair and shining blue tattoos on his skin.

“Hawke,” he said, his voice a deep rumble. 

“Ah. Fenris. Good evening.” 

***

He stared. He could do any number of things, least of all knock her down. But instead he stared.

Outside he could hear the clatter of armor, of guardsmen in the square. His heart raced when first he heard it, clattering and shouting from the Chantry Courtyard floating in through the holes in the ceiling and filling the normally quiet mansion with noise. Now he knew why, or had a fair guess. 

“What did you do?” Sidonie just laughed, pushing away his blade, and he let it happen because he could smell whiskey on her. He considered her with an arched brow, carefully lowering his blade, as she hauled herself up and dusted herself off and then helped the barely-clad Rivaini from the floor. 

“Fenris, this is Isabela.” Fenris considered her with a flat stare. She was heavy with gold and bosom, clad in what appeared to be a short sailor’s smock made of sailcloth, and giving him a smirk that said she was more than a little amused. Her eyes were a deep gold. He said no greeting.

“Why are you in my house?” 

“We’re hiding of course. There was…an incident. We were attacked.” Fenris felt a flash of irritation and his eyes slipped to Hawke. 

“An incident.”

“A simple sparring match gone awry,” Isabela said with a smile. She would not stop staring at it. It made him a little uncomfortable, so he drew a deep breath and looked instead to Sidonie, who he noticed then had glassy eyes and a smirk that seemed a little off. And then he realized why.

“Maker’s blood. You went dueling after drinking?” Sidonie gave him a smile, but it faltered a little.

“When else?” Isabela said. She had the look of a raider to her, rough around the pretty edges. He slipped his sword into its sheath at his back. 

“And out there? Aveline? Her city guard? Or something else?” 

“Oh definitely the City Guard,” Sidonie replied, drawing back from the door.

There was a noise from outside, the guardsmen coming up the lane. A flash of anxiety crossed Sidonie’s face. 

“Mind if we…?” She nodded further into the house, and he glanced between them then finally waved them through. And it was not a moment too soon. The guardsmen began knocking on doors. Fenris, drawing a belabored breath at the entire situation, slipped the deadbolt over the door and followed them inside. 

He had no desire for company, and yet there they were, standing together in the hall. Isabela was looking around like he owned the place and she meant to judge him for the bodies that still lingered in the corners across the tiles from Danarius’s campaign through the house. Blood smeared the steps, and ashes and soot still lingered in the corners. He crossed the splintering tile floor towards them. 

“Hawke,” he muttered, trying to work out to do with them. Hawke looked to him, and Isabela grimaced.

“Is there a back way out?” the woman asked. “It’s me they’ll be looking for in any case. ” Sidonie looked surprised. Fenris, however, breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Yes. A back door out through a garden. You must jump the wall.”

“Always a pleasure,” Isabela smirked at his simple reply. Then she glanced to Hawke. “This one though…she can’t stand up from bending.” Hawke gave her a small smirk, no – a giggle. Fenris sighed.

“I’ll try,” Sidonie said, but Isabela shook her head. 

“And then where will you go? You’ve already fallen out with that handsome brother of yours.” Sidonie’s expression immediately darkened in the dim light. Fenris listened, wondering. Carver had been very protective of Sidonie when he had seen them before. Granted, he did not know them well. That said, he had certainly felt the wariness before, when Carver had considered him with distrustful eyes. And Sidonie had done so as well, in her own way. He was used to distrust. She had reason, after all. 

No he was not glad to have this mage in his house again. And now she had brought a pirate as well.

But the look in her eyes now, the dark and flickering pain. He paused. Isabela simply smiled slightly and took a step forward, her hands finding one of Sidonie’s.

“Anyway,” she said simply. “Thanks for helping me out with Hayder. I think I’ll stick around for awhile. There might be something I could do for you.” Her eyes flickered a moment to him, gold in the darkness, and then back to Sidonie. She leaned in slightly. “I have room at the Hanged Man if you’re looking for…company later,” she added. Then she drew back, leaving a nonplussed mage in her wake, and drew towards the side door, glancing back to Fenris. “This way?” She pointed. He nodded and then motioned her round, and she took off, disappearing out into the corridor. There was a few moments of footsteps fading, then the sound of the door opening and slamming, and she was gone.

And that left him with Sidonie, who suddenly looked very awkward. She eyed him up warily, and for a moment she looked…very young. He swallowed, considering her in the semi-darkness of the moonlight. And then he shook his head.

“You fought with your brother?” She bowed her head a little.

“I…” He sighed, motioning to the stairs.

“Come on.” 

That was how they found themselves sitting before the fire on the wooden benches in the only room he occupied. The fire he kept burning as low embers, enough for light, enough for darkness. It cast deep umber shadows across the grey tiles. 

“What was this fight about?” Fenris asked as he pried the cork from a bottle of wine left over in the cellars and then passed it to her. Sidonie eyed it dubiously, but then sighed, bowing her head over the bottle she held in both hands. She did not drink, but she did hunch her shoulders like she were making herself smaller.

“He…he’s just a little shit, that’s all.” She sighed, slipping down off the seat onto the tiles and spreading her legs before her. The glass bottle clinked against the ground as she settled, and she considered it a moment before raising it halfway to her mouth. And then she thought better of it and instead looked to him. He reclaimed the seat near the fire, leaning forward, watching her with hesitant eyes.

She was dangerous, a mage. At any moment she could…

And yet, she had helped him. And she seemed more likely to fall asleep in any case.

“I can’t go home,” she said suddenly. “I…I know you don’t like me. Maker, after everything, you don’t have to. And…if I’m honest, you scare the shit out of me too.” She looked at him through her hair, which was falling about her face. “Maker, you could…tear my heart out if you wanted. I know it too. And anyway, you make me dizzy. All the lyrium…I can’t think straight around you.” Her eyes slipped to the bottle. “Couldn’t think straight anyway. Too much to…to…” She carefully set it aside, turning to lean on the wood of the bench and consider him. He gazed back under her inspection, curious. He had never known a mage to look so helpless. They were masters of base power, manipulators of the forces of nature. They did not sit against benches clutching bottles of untasted wine because they were unable to go home.

He shifted a little.

“I don’t dislike you,” he finally said. “I don’t _know_ you.” 

“Neither do I,” she laughed but it was without any joy. “Just…some refugee trying to get by.” When she looked up, her eyes were burning in the dim light, pools of darkness that might swallow him whole. “This whole idea is shit, isn’t it?”

“Which idea would that be?” She did laugh then, and this time it was genuine, and then she took a swig from the bottle.

“The one where I get myself captured by the Chantry for helping an apostate Grey Warden break his friend out of the Circle.” He did not reply. It _was_ a foolish idea, and she did not need him to tell her. “Thing is,” she added, “if we _don’t_ do it…Maker, my Mother will starve, and I might get sold out anyway by Meeran or Athenril.” He narrowed his gaze, peering at her. When no further information was forthcoming, he quietly drew a breath.

“Are they hunting you?” She gave him a sharp look, setting the bottle aside carefully and then leaning towards him a little. Her eyes met his, deep, and for a moment dark and angry.

“My Uncle might have told them about the…the magic thing I do,” she said quietly. “And they both know if they hold that over me, I end up doing all sorts of things. We had to sell ourselves into Meeran’s Red Iron company to settle Gamlen’s debts and make the coin to get into Kirkwall during the Blight. That time…it’s almost up. And if we can’t…if this expedition…” She drew back, turning her face away and taking a deep breath. “Well, it’s only a matter of time before one or the other decides I’m more trouble free than I am locked up. And Carver agrees, apparently. Or…he thinks he does.” Fenris felt a wash of discomfort. He was all for watching mages, keeping a check on their power. After all, he knew a very different world. But this woman…what had she told him?

 _I’m just trying to get by._

He sighed, glancing to the fire, and she hung her head again, reaching for the bottle and taking another swig of the heady wine. He relieved her of it, and drank some himself, and then he sighed.

“You faced Danarius’s men for me. I still owe you for that at least,” he said. “I won’t let them take you until that debt is settled.” She snorted, peering at him from under her hair again.

“Oh, but after will be fine.”

“That remains to be seen.” She just sighed, took back the bottle, and leaned back, her black hair spilling across his bench. 

“You’re all heart,” she muttered. “Just like Carver.” She closed her eyes. “Our father escaped the Kirkwall Circle to be with my mother. We spent so long running, hiding. Always they hunted us. Nowhere was safe for long.” Fenris felt a pang of familiarity. “Magic must serve what is best in me, not that which is most base.” He narrowed his eyes.

“What is that?”

“A promise,” she replied, her eyes opening ever so slightly. “Bethany and I both made it.” It sounded so simple, such a small thing, and maybe even a lie. But it was not a promise to avoid blood magic. It was no pledge to never cast spells. Instead, it was a guide. Magic will serve what is best, not base. 

He leaned forward a little.

“Who is Bethany?” Ah, the contortion in her face, the way those oxblood eyes took on a salty sheen from tears that welled under her eyes, called forth by too much drinking.

“My sister,” she finally told him in a mere whisper. “Bethany would never have made it here. She…she died when the darkspawn took Lothering.” He felt his mouth go a little dry.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, like it was enough to make it better. It was not. Instead, she just slid her eyes closed again and set the bottle aside on the tiles. And then she shook her head.

“She would have hated Kirkwall,” she told him. She was not really speaking to him. “The whole place feels wrong.” He felt something strange himself, but often his markings did feel strange. This though…if she was saying it….

“Wrong?”

“The Veil is in tatters. The entire place reeks of death. I used my magic earlier when we were surrounded. It felt like reaching into darkness. On the other side, I could feel them. The spirits. The demons. They stand there, even now, pressing, pushing. For a moment…for a moment…” She hung her head and drew a deep breath. “Magic must serve what is best in me, not that which is most base.” And then she looked up, sharply, considering him with startled eyes. He stared back, confused, and she pushed herself up. “You asked me to fix the Veil here,” she told him quietly.

“Surely not now,” he murmured, but she shook her head, catching her balance on her feet.

“Yes. Now. To make it safe. I just…want to be safe. But…” she considered him, her eyes skimming the blue lines of lyrium tracing across his flesh. “I need your help, if you will grant it.” He paused, suspicious. The last time they had joined forces, it had been an accident, to be honest, and the experience had left him panting and drained. And it had left her drunk with the power and drained as well. But he saw fear in her eyes. She did not really want to do it. She had made him a promise.

So he pushed himself up, giving her a solemn nod. 

“As we did before?” she asked.

“And when it is done?” he countered. She dropped her gaze to the tile floor, and then wet her lips.

“I still can’t go home,” she admitted. He shifted, stepping forward, peering into her gaze. His green on her red. His white hair catching the light while her black locks swallowed it in darkness. She had the lightest dusting of freckles across her nose. He sighed.

“Fine,” he said at long last, his voice catching in his throat. It felt thick, immalleable. He forced it to cooperate. She gave a sigh this time relief, and a nod of gratitude. “But Hawke,” he added quietly, and her brow creased slightly. “Only for the night.” 

“Agreed,” she told him softly, sounding nervous.

 _If I’m honest, you scare the shit out of me too._

***

Amidst an awning of gold and scarlet, kissed by the winter winds in a blanket of snows, only burning bonfires kept them warm. The banners of Ferelden rippled in the sky above, even as the flames flickered in deep metal braziers melting circles in the snow. Horses danced in the rows, and courtiers and guardsmen alike meandered through the pavilions. 

Alistair leaned over the table, considering the map on the table showing all of Ferelden mapped in clean ink. He was wrapped in a scarlet cloak lined in warm bear fur. About his head, his silverite war crown, forged by the dwarves in Orzammar for his coronation. He felt too formal for all this business, but today would be an auspicious day. His armor was ceremonial, not practical, though he did have Duncan’s sword at his side. 

About him, in equal finery, Bann Teagan and Bann Sighard along with his son Oswyn stood about the table, silently peering at the maps where they were marked with pieces like a war-board. At the entrance to the pavilion, peering out over the snows, his hand tangling in the fur of one of his mabari, was Arl Bryland. He was gazing south across the plains outside Denerim towards Dragon’s Peak in the distance. 

It stood above them, veiled in clouds, dusty a glittering white with snows in the crisp air. Alistair let his gaze flicker to it, then to the Arl who had his back to them all, leaning on the pavilion pole. 

There was the sound of dogs barking, not abnormal, but it washed over them like a wave, and a small smile flickered at the corner of his mouth as he pushed himself up.

“Your Majesty, see reason!” a voice floated towards them, Arl Eamon. And then they appeared at the corner of the pavilion. Arl Eamon, bristling in ceremonial armor, pulled back the canvas of the tent, and Arl Bryland stepped back, ducking his head a little so as to avoid brushing his head on the top of the tent. Eideann swept in about them, resplendent in her green velvet. Her silverite laurel crown was buried in a twisted up-do, the best she could do with her short hair, pinned with the sort of elegance that almost seemed effortless. Fennec fur tickled her flesh at the collar of a silken mantle. 

“Chancellor,” she said softly, “I am doing what I must.” She reached then for Arl Bryland, planting a kiss on his cheek. “My Lord,” she greeted.

“Your Majesty,” he smiled. His mabari gave a bark, and then Angus came bounding in across the snows, jumping about their feet to play. Eideann caught Teagan’s hand a moment in greeting, smiled warmly to Oswyn and Bann Sighard, and then turned her brilliant gaze on Alistair. It was bright and beautiful in the cool winter air, and made him think of the battlements at Ostagar where he had pressed a rose into her hands. He reached for her with both hands, bringing them to his lips.

“My Queen,” he murmured, and she kissed him gently. 

“Alistair.” A moment of affection. And then she drew back, looking to the map. “Is all ready?”

“As much as it can be,” Teagan replied simply. “We have established a meeting grounds, and even now they gather to the south.” 

“Your Majesty,” Arl Eamon tried again. This time he was talking to Alistair. “I must council against this course of action.”

“Eamon,” Teagan said quietly. Arl Eamon shook his head.

“To follow through with this plan…the Banns would never accept it. There would be open revolt. To turn the very heart of Denerim over and then also the Teyrnir of Gwaren.”

“I am not giving anyone the Teyrnir of Gwaren, nor am I turning over the heart of Denerim,” Alistair said softly.

“No, and neither shall he. Southern Ferelden is stable, with our gracious Arl Eamon and Arl Bryland holding our southern borders. Gwaren the city is of strategic value, but the Brecilian Forest is mostly untracked, and Gwaren’s strength is in its port,” Eideann said quietly. “In any case, we owe this debt in blood.” 

“A debt,” Sighard said quietly. “Then why split Denerim?”

“Because the crown does not name Banns, as well you know, Bann Sighard. We must only acknowledge them, and it is past time that was done,” Eideann told him.

“The decision is made,” Alistair added quietly.

“They spoke of you as a usurper up in Amaranthine,” Bann Sighard said warily. “Would you invite the same discourse in the south as well?” Eideann was quiet then, tracing the borders on the map.

“The fear is that we overreach our power, My Lords,” she finally said quietly. “You worry that the Banns will see this as overreach. But the Banns are chosen from among the people, and the Banns choose their Teyrns. We were given the right to rule in the Landsmeet.” She glanced up with soft eyes, twisting a little, her mantle and gown turning about her. “There are voices in Denerim that must be heard. This is especially true after the events under Loghain and Anora. We would hear those voices, and give them the power to speak where others would not. We all have a duty to listen.” She looked back to Alistair then and he nodded. “There is more,” she continued. “We are of few bloodlines, powerful and old. And the years have made us tight-knit. South Reach, Redcliffe, and Highever control almost all the land outside of Gwaren. The Bannorn remains a slew of intermarried nobility. We narrow our voices this way, my friends. I would see that power spread among us all.”

“They’re unpredictable,” Eamon said quietly. “They will not answer to the crown.”

“That is not the intent,” Alistair replied, gently settling a hand on the small of Eideann’s back. “We are giving a gift, one richly deserved, and seeking to make peace.” He looked to her. “As for Denerim, the same.” It had been his idea, though Eideann had been wholeheartedly in support. He wanted more advisors, wanted more knowledgeable people, and he wanted those who had spent their lives in Denerim. Perspective, he had learned, was a valuable gift, and one they must avail of themselves each opportunity. “In any sense, there is justice in it.”

“Justice!” Eamon roared. He leaned on the table before them, leaning too close for comfort. “Justice has nothing to do with it. You may have ended the Blight - ”

“And the Civil War,” Teagan added pointedly.

“Regardless, a country is not run by what one thinks is just! It is run by a careful balance of a multitude of interests. Justice is an ideal to be reached for once the rest has been properly handled.”

“Which is why you sent me to Amaranthine, My Lord? Why you counselled a Warden Commander take the seat of that Arling? To properly handle the situation there?” Eideann replied back coolly. “No, the decision is made. It is too late to turn from it now, even if we wished to – “

“Which - !” 

“ _Which_ we do _not_.” Eamon gave them both a quiet look, then sighed, bowing his head.

“And when the people grow angry?”

“The Banns will grow angry. The people of Denerim will not. They have made their choice already,” Alistair replied. “We are simply acknowledging it.” Eideann smiled ever so slightly and Alistair had to resist the urge to reach up and brush a stray hair back behind her ear. Maker, she was beautiful. It caused him pause, and he tightened his hand at her back to stop himself from getting distracted.

There was the sound of horns, and Eideann glanced towards the pavilion. The horns were not the Denerim warhorns, or those from the Coastlands or Ferelden itself. It was, instead, the Dalish horns. Alistair drew a deep breath.

“Keeper Lanaya,” he said quietly. 

“And if we are lucky, Keeper Soran,” Eideann added. “I wonder if Keeper Ilshae’s clan shall be here, or the others.”

“In time, my love,” he murmured, failing to hold it back and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Is the rest in order for the other half of the ceremony?” 

“We can only hope,” she murmured. “I shall make up the rest as I go along.”

“As you always do.” He caught her hand and pushed beyond the table. “Come, my Queen. Business awaits.”

It had been so long in the planning, so many weeks since the coronation, so many letters and messengers sent via means they had been forced to seek out. Velanna had been instrumental in the end, though she dared not send her letters herself. As for the rest, it was a matter of gratitude. They had gone themselves to the Alienage to seek out Hahren Valendrian, the man who had been Duncan’s friend long ago. They had been there before, during the plague, when the Tevinter slavers had been there at Loghain’s behest. They recognized the faces. 

They left the shelter of the pavilion together, Angus at their heels, in the company of their Arls and Bann Sighard and Lord Oswyn. 

At the center of the encampment stood a circle ringed in braziers, and a green carpet of exposed grass where the snows had been cleared away. They made their way to one end, standing in the warmth of the fires, and stood there together, waiting. About them more of the Banns gathered, Knights and lords and ladies, but also common folk, eager to see what came next. They turned none away.

The Dalish scouts came first, filtering through the tents, armed with bows and arrows. Alistair recognized Mithra, the pretty and fierce woman from the Brecilian Forests, who was watching them warily, clad in glittering armor and thick, warm furs. At her side, a few new scouts, ones he did not recall seeing. The Dalish numbers had grown, it seemed.

There were other elves there, ones from the city, come to witness the proceedings, but they kept their distance, watched warily. Without the Blight, the bonds that bound them close were slowly fading away. 

And then there came Lanaya, her hair a knotted tangle of braids. She wore the garb of a Keeper, greens and silver chainmail. In her hand, her Keeper’s staff. At her side, her new Second. She entered the ring of braziers, nodding to Mithra, and then turned her eyes onto Eideann and Alistair. The lightest of smiles seemed to hover at her lips, and then her eyes went a little cold.

“I am summoned,” she said, “as I was during the Blight. But the Blight is over now, so what need do you have now of the Dalish?” 

“Keeper Lanaya,” Eideann said softly. “We wished to express our gratitude, for all your people did during the Blight. Without you, we would never have reached the Archdemon.” She stepped forward, wetting her lips. “I remember those lost, and mourn their passing, and we would not see their sacrifice forgotten.” Alistair raised his chin a little as Lanaya looked between them. Eideann turned, looking at her lords, then glancing back to Lanaya. “With the death of Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir and his daughter, the Teyrnir of Gwaren and all its lands revert to the Fereldan crown under the lineage of Theirin. King Alistair Theirin would make a gift of some of this land.” Her eyes softened. “We cannot give you the Dales, as you justly deserve, but we can give you the lands that once were yours, where your people live now, and where they might live again, if you so wished it. Keeper Lanaya, we would give to the Dalish the Brecilian Forest, from the border with the Chasind Wilds, to the Amaranthine Ocean, and the borders of South Reach. We grant these lands to all the Dalish, in honor of the aid they gave us, in hopes it may represent peace between us.” Lanaya was quiet a moment, and a hush had fallen over the proceedings. 

And then the Keeper drew a deep breath, lips parting.

“Our people often cross the paths of merchants in the woods. When human villagers find our camps, we inevitably conflict. Do we have your promise of safe passage?” Eideann met her eyes.

“Arl Leonas Bryland rules South Reach, where most of those villages lie.” She held out a hand towards Arl Bryland who shifted his hand where it rested on his ceremonial sword and took a step forward, offering a bow. “He was a brother to my father, and has promised me he will honor the pact I make. He shall see the border maintained. The only territory we seek to hold is Gwaren, as it maintains our ties to the dwarven empire, and as Wardens and as an ancestral seat of the Theirins, Alistair and I ask you to cede that one territory from the whole.” Lanaya considered her, and there were a few heartbeats of silence, before at last she gave a quiet laugh.

“This then is your promise, Shemlen Queen? When you promised we would not be forgotten?” Eideann nodded, and Alistair stepped forward to catch her hand.

“Our promise,” Alistair said softly. “One long overdue.” Arl Bryland gave another bow of head.

“I swear it, Lady Keeper, that I will uphold the royal decree. Those lands are to be held in trust for all Dalish.” Lanaya drew a deep breath and then nodded to the Arl before glancing back to Eideann and Alistair.

“Then we shall take it, as gifts earned in service. But we will keep our own. You will be no crown to the Dalish.” 

“Nor would we have it so,” Eideann smiled softly. “This gift is a gift, not a tie. We hope only that you remember it as a kindness.” Lanaya smiled, then stepped forward, reaching out. Eideann clasped her wrist in turn and they stood a moment, joined. 

“Then, Queen Eideann, I accept, on behalf of the Dalish.” She glanced between them. “I had not truly expected you to honor the agreement, but I should have known better perhaps. I learned a year hence what sort of people you both are.” Eideann gave the ghost of a smile. Alistair felt a wash of relief and tightened his fingers about her hand a little. She squeezed it back in turn.

“We intend to prove we keep our promises, Keeper Lanaya,” he said softly. 

“I trust this is not entirely for us, but we have brought enough for a celebration, if you care to join us,” Lanaya offered with a knowing smile.

“Certainly, but there is one more matter to attend to,” Eideann replied with a smile. “Our own people are working to prepare festivities. You are welcome to join us.”

“Then we shall prepare,” Lanaya said. “The Dalish and the humans will celebrate together, as we should have done when the Archdemon fell.” Eideann nodded, releasing Lanaya’s arm, and then they watched as she retreated with her scouts back towards their encampment.

When they had faded into the woods, Alistair pressed a kiss to the back of Eideann’s hand to calm his nerves, then beckoned for Arl Eamon to bring forward their other guest. The Chancellor came forward, bearing a fur-lined cloak of office, and a ceremonial sword, as well as a thin band of bronze. And behind him, in a simple smock, presumably his best, was Valendrian, the Hahren, looking old and worn, but hale. At his side was the red-haired elf, Shianni, who was wearing her own best as well.

They all three approached, and Eideann relieved Arl Eamon of the cloak, blade, and coronet, holding them as Alistair bowed to Valendrian.

“Hahren,” he said softly. “We welcome you.”

“Your Majesties,” the Hahren said, and gave a wary bow. Eideann smiled slightly and Shianni watched them with sharp eyes.

“You know why we have called you here to join us today,” Eideann said gently. Alistair nodded.

“What happened in the Alienage can never be allowed to repeat. The people there need a leader, one who is strong and wise, and they have long since chosen you, Hahren. We would add to this.” He reached for the coronet, then glanced back. “We would name you Bann of Denerim, and through you provide the funds needed to improve those parts of the city that are under your command.” He held the coronet in both hands, noticing them shaking, and willed them still. Eideann beside him smiled. “We have little resources, but we wanted them spent where they will do the most good. We would offer you a place in the Landsmeet, and at our side as adviser, if you will accept.” Valendrian gave a smile, looking between them both. And then he sighed, giving a gentle chuckle.

“Duncan would have been proud, I think,” he told Alistair quietly. “I will be Hahren, if you so wish it, your Majesties. I will bring you what council I can. But I cannot be the one to take charge of efforts to improve the Alienage. That…must fall to another.” His eyes slipped instead to Shianni who stared a moment, then shook her head.

“What?!” she insisted. “You can’t mean - !” 

“Shianni will take my place,” Valendrian said with a small smile. He glanced to Eideann and Alistair, “if that is acceptable.” Eideann smiled an Alistair turned to bow his head to Shianni a little.

“So be it,” he said, holding forth the coronet to her instead. “Bann Shianni of Denerim.” He slipped the coronet over her bright red hair, and it settled in a thin band across her forehead. She blinked as he took the sword from Eideann and she spread the cloak about Shianni’s shoulders as the sign of her office. The sword he passed to Valendrian, who accepted it as a token of goodwill, and bowed low.

“Thank you, your Majesties.”

“I…don’t know what to say,” Shianni said. There was applause then, shouts and cheers from the crowd where the denizens of the Alienage were gathered there about them. Alistair and Eideann drew back as Bann Shianni and Hahren Valendrian turned to consider them all, and then the crowd surged forward, swarming them in celebration. Eideann and Alistair stepped back, let them be swept away in the joy of it all, and then Arl Eamon called all to listen, and announced the festivities begin.

It was an event of a lifetime, mingling Alienage, Fereldan, and Dalish celebrations in a mishmash of joy and wonder. The Dalish swapped stories of their gods with the elves that spoke of Andraste. They sang songs of the old woodlands as well as the courtly ballads popular now after the Blight, and that included ‘I Am the One’. They danced, and feasted on their various dishes. The Dalish held an archery contest, and then at last they pitched their tents together, and retired under the stars.

Alistair waited until the chill had settled before drawing Eideann back to the gold and scarlet pavilions of the royal camp. They bade their nobles farewell, including Hahren Valendrian and Bann Shianni. Alistair caught Eideann’s hands in his and drew her back towards their private tent, which had been kept warm by a low-burning brazier and thick pelts of bear fur and blankets of warm Hinterlands wool. Angus was there, buried in the corner in a pile all his own, but aside from him they were alone. Alistair waited until the tent flaps were secured before gathering her up into his arms and reaching for the laces of her gown.

“Is it well done then, my Queen?” he asked playfully. She smiled, leaning in to kiss him and working at the straps of his armor. Outside the rustle of the wind and the creak of the armor from their guardsmen were the only sounds.

“Yes, my King. It is well done.”

He kissed her properly then, slipping her gown from her shoulders until it pooled at her ankles and a chill set her skin to goosebumps. And then he carefully pulled the pins from her hair while she set aside their crowns.

When at last he sank into her, it felt like coming home. He had been longing for so long, it felt, and even though they shared their chambers and slept each night in one another’s arms, there was something freeing about once again tangling together under the thin shelter of tent canvas somewhere in the middle of the open fields. It brought back a wave of nostalgia, until he could not even consider that. Instead he lost himself in the warmth of her, the tight embrace, and the quiet gasps for breath in the darkness.

 _Maker, would that every man might be so lucky,_ he thought to himself, after all they had been through, all they had done. And then, when at last he reached his peak, and fell to twine their limbs together under the thick furs and listen instead to her quieting breathing, he gave a soft chuckle instead.

 _Yes,_ he thought, pressing their foreheads together in the darkness and the sweet scent of their lovemaking. _Yes. It is well done._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes about Isabela's Hayder duel:
> 
> Originally in game this takes place in the Chantry, but given Anders's incident ALSO happens in the Chantry, and the timeframe makes them very close, I didn't want to make this also happen inside. So, instead, the fight happens in the courtyard, and we get an actual response from the guard too without waking up all the Sisters. :)
> 
> Notes about the Bann of Denerim and the Gift to the Dalish:  
> Originally the end-notes for Dragon Age: Origins may include things like "Valendrian becomes Bann of the Alienage" or "Shianni became the new Bann when Valendrian was too old", and "Alistair made the elven elder an advisor to his court, much to the scandal of the nobility", and "the crown gave the Wilds to the Dalish as a new homeland". I did not want to lose the spirit of these endings, especially since they will have profound impacts later, but I have altered a few. The Bann of the Alienage is now Bann of Denerim. This feels less threatening than Arl of Denerim (and frankly with a King/Queen there why is there an Arl anyway), but with the justice of someone taking over Vaughan's role after all the crap he pulled (for those who don't remember, Eideann finished him off ages ago). I wanted to keep Valendrian's knowledge, but Shianni is the one with the fire and ferocity to really get things done, so splitting it seemed ideal. As for the Dalish, the Wilds are owned by the Chasind and the Alamarri, and are also tainted by the Blight in a lot of places by this point. It felt like less a gift and more a set-up for failure. So, instead, they have been given the Brecilian Forest where they clearly have experience there, and the forests hold old elven ruins and the like that prove they once lived there permanently. Also, this will become important later as well as we move into later years. Lanaya is the best one to accept this, and so she did so on behalf of all Dalish. They are actually all welcome. Whether they take the offer or not is something to be seen, but Lanaya's group definitely WILL take the offer, since they're already in the Brecilian Forest anyway.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie and Carver meet Anders in the Chantry, and everything goes wrong; Nathaniel and his company find Brogan in Amgarrak Thaig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: gore, violence

He let himself through the door to the Hanged Man with a certain amount of irritation, certain the first thing he would see would be Sidonie camped out at a table, neck-deep in piss-poor ale after a night of drowning her anguish and sorrows. He was rather surprised when he found her leaning instead at a corner table over whatever mystery meat stew the Hanged Man had cooked up for breakfast, with Varric, a barely-dressed Raider, and the lyrium-marked elf from earlier all in attendance. He had assumed she would still be sulking - _he_ certainly still was. But even if she had not been, he had been seeking a way to say sorry, a bit of privacy away from home for the words that had escaped the night before.

He was sporting a rather grim bruise from her fist at his cheek. If he was really honest with himself, for a moment he had forgotten how hard she could actually hit and that she was a melee master as well. He grimaced, ignoring the dull pain that was spreading from his cheekbone through his face.

Sidonie did not look at him, not at first. Instead, she leaned over to the pirate.

“The thing is,” she was saying quietly, “you owe me. And this is the perfect way to pay it back.”

“I don’t know, sweet thing. There are better ways to pay down a debt…” Sidonie just sighed, blinking through squinting eyes, and Carver was almost entirely certain in that moment she was suffering the world’s worst headache.

“Well, given it was my idea in the first place, I’ll go,” Varric offered, “and Broody here is along for the ride, or he wouldn’t be at the table.” 

“I hope,” Fenris said darkly, “you know what you’re doing, Hawke.”

“Only thing I can do,” Sidonie replied. When had she become Hawke? He was Hawke as well. Carver pushed away the annoyed sensation and instead crossed to join them. “I have to help my family, and that sometimes means doing things I don’t like. And I really don’t like this plan any more than you do, Fenris.” Fenris still looked dubious. Carver drew up a chair, toppling into it with a short stare. The pirate woman gave him a knowing look, like she knew him from somewhere, and he glowered in return.

“What are you doing?” he asked Sidonie, who gave him a dark look.

“Did Mother send you looking?” she shot back bitterly. He did not blame her. He did, but…not really. He just sighed.

“I…look. I was a complete arse last night. I know it too. And I said some things I should not have said, and you know I say things and don’t mean them…” he said, fully aware of his audience watching him admit to that. It pricked his pride. He pushed the thoughts away. “I said I was with you, and I am. We’re not doing this for that Warden. We’re…doing it because we have to. There’s a lot of things we just have to do.” She considered him a moment, a silent interlude between them, and then finally she sighed, letting it go like she always did. He could have sworn for the briefest of moments flames had danced across her hand, but she would not be so foolish to be obvious in an inn with her magic, and it was over so quickly he was sure it was imagined. Instead he leaned forward, helping himself to a mug of weak ale Varric had apparently ordered via pitcher for the table. “So, what is the plan then? I assume we have a plan.”

“What makes you think I ever plan?” Sidonie said simply, spooning some of the mystery meat stew from the Hanged Man’s special menu into her mouth. “I don’t even know if the fallout from last night has hit yet.” 

“Last night?” Carver felt his stomach drop. “What did you do last night?” Sidonie gave him a sidelong look. It was the pirate that answered.

“I wouldn’t worry about it, pup,” she said. Fenris proved more forthcoming.

“Your sister used magic to litter the Chantry courtyard with Raider corpses yesterday evening.” Carver leaned forward, yes sliding to Sidonie.

“What?”

“No choice,” she said simply, eyes on her stew.

“You know how dangerous that is!” he despaired. Her eyes flicked up to his, narrowed and cold.

“More so than you, I would expect.”

“Fine.” He turned his face away. “Did you…get caught?” 

“Get caught?” the pirate laughed. “Oh, sweet thing, we would never!” He glared.

“And who _are_ you anyway.”

“Isabela, this my brother Carver. Carver, this is Captain Isabela.” He narrowed his gaze.

“So the Raiders were after you then.”

“There are many people after me,” Isabela said, leaning back in her chair, propping her arm on the back of it and sipping at some of the ale. Carver sighed, and she gave a smile, letting her eyes drift over him. “You look like a man I once dueled,” she said. “He was a little intimidated by my reputation as a vicious pirate, but rose to the challenge.” 

“He looked like me, you say?” Carver said flatly. He wondered why she kept eyeing him up with that glint in her eye. It was not flirting, not real wanting. At least…he did not think it was, and anyway he was trying to be annoyed at her. Instead it was…teasing? 

And then he remembered. The night before, he had pushed his way through a group of raiders as he abandoned Sidonie to her drinks, his cheek smarting from her punch. And she had been among them. He gave a groan. Isabela just chuckled.

“It went on all night,” she continued, “under the stars, the waves lapping at our ankles.” Carver grimaced.

“On the beach? In the surf? How did you get proper footing?” A duel of that nature, he wanted to show her…to prove she was making it up, that it was all rubbish. He wanted to retreat and lick his wounds. She just grinned like he had missed the point entirely.

“We didn’t. There was quite a bit of tumbling around, and we were soaked and sore by the time the sun came up.”

“Did you…win?” he asked weakly.

“I managed to get on top in the end, but I considered it a tie,” Isabela mused. And then Carver realized what she was talking about. And he flushed a bright red.

 _Oh._ She gave a wicked little laugh and he glared at Sidonie.

“So the favor she owes you then is because of last night?” he demanded. Sidonie was smirking into her stew, clearly as amused as Isabela, and Carver was hard pressed to force his anger down. “Fine. Enough. Laugh if you will.”

“Aww, Little Hawke,” Varric mused, holding his mug in both hands, Bianca the Crossbow propped at his back. 

“Varric,” Carver shot back. “Still think you’re helping while burying us in debt to your brother?” Varric smirked, meeting the challenge by swaying a little in his chair like he might swagger into a fight.

“Still riding side-saddle while bitching at your betters?” Carver sighed, then finally gave a small smile, reaching for the ale.

“Drink?” he offered, and the dwarf held forth his mug for a refill.

“Never miss it.” 

Carver filled the mug to the brim, then looked back to Sidonie.

“So…what _is_ the plan?” 

“Assuming Aveline has not cordoned off the Chantry courtyard after last night,” Sidonie said quietly, “we meet Anders, get in, and get out, as quickly as we can, and pray to the Maker no Templars show up.” Carver wet his lips. That was the real concern. Being caught out. It was no simple thing, taking part in this. It made anger ripple through him to think the Warden was holding it over their heads. The Kirkwall Templars were…well, they were fierce, and hard, and they did not hesitate. If they caught Sidonie, she would be dead. If they caught him…their whole family would be in serious trouble. It was half the reason they had let Athenril put them through the ringer so many times, half the reason Meeran still held the weight over their heads. If they got caught…

He looked to Sidonie.

“And there really is no other way?” She met his gaze, quiet and wary, and nodded.

“No other way.”

***

Sidonie was nervous as she climbed the steps. The sensation of being sick to her stomach was not only attributable to the mild headache remaining from a night spending too much time drinking away her sorrows. It was partly because of the lyrium headrush that had resulted in both herself and Fenris passed out on the tiles of his borrowed mansion, though the Veil was mended now. It also had to do with the nerve-wracking knowledge of what was coming next. 

The Chantry courtyard was empty, though blood still smeared the stones from the fight before. The bodies had been cleared away of course, and a guard could be heard clanking their rounds in the distance. Other than that, the Kirkwall evening was once again silent, though snatches of soft music occasionally reached them from the estates. 

Sidonie, halberd at her back, climbed the Chantry steps. Isabela looked wary beside her, eyes like thick honey in the darkness when she looked to Sidonie with questioning eyes. Sidonie just nodded, unable to consider the others. The faster this was over with, the better.

Anders was waiting, clad in the same quilted and fur-lined coat as before, leaning warily on his staff, the dragon-headed thing that was bristling with power as she approached. They had surprised him then. 

She saw his eyes widen a little in alarm, then he sighed.

“I didn’t think…well…you’re here now,” he said. And then he narrowed his gaze. “Who are your friends?”

“My friends,” she said forcefully. “And they’ll help.” He considered them warily, eyes sliding up to Isabela, the only unfamiliar face. And then his eyes narrowed further.

“You…” he said quietly. Isabela drew up alongside Sidonie with a quick smile. “I know you from somewhere…”

“You’re Fereldan, right?” Isabela smirked, catching his accent. “Ever spend time at the Pearl?”

“That’s it!” Anders said sharply. “You used to really like that girl with the griffon tattoos, right? What was her name?

“The Lay Warden?” Isabela laughed. Sidonie raised an eyebrow.

“That’s right. I think you were there the night I – “ He dropped off hurriedly, but the damage was done. 

“Oh! Were you the runaway mage who could do that electricity thing?! That was nice…” Sidonie stared, and so, apparently, did everyone else. Anders flushed a bit red. Isabela laughed.

And then finally Varric took charge.

“I don’t think I need to know this about either of you,” he muttered. Anders blinked, tearing his gaze away, and then glanced instead towards the Chantry door.

“I…saw Karl go inside as I arrived. No Templars so far.” His voice was sober now, all alarm or surprise or amusement gone. It was cold and hard and torn. Sidonie drew a breath. “Are you ready?” he asked her. She sighed.

“Let’s do this fast.” He nodded.

“I’ll handle the talking. You watch for Templars.”

“Oh for the Maker’s sake…” Carver muttered behind her, but Sidonie pushed her own reaction inside and gave a distasteful nod. Anders shot Carver a glare, then slipped back, taking the few steps towards the door and carefully pushing it open. It swung inward with a quiet clang of metal hinges, and Sidonie winced at the noise. But the corridors were empty, the Sisters and Brothers all abed, the Revered Mother absent at such a late hour. 

It changed nothing about the oppressive air that hung over the chambers. High above, Andraste’s cold gold eyes watched them in judgement. But the somber atmosphere was immediately shattered by Isabela, who mumbled quietly: “And then Isabela went to the chantry, and saw that it was boring. Canticle of Isabela, stanza one, verse one.”Anders glared back at her.

“Don’t you take anything seriously?” She smiled back and Sidonie repressed a groan.

“When you get right down to it, we’re not responsible for anyone but ourselves. You can choose to be free, or you can choose to be saddled with all the world’s problems.” 

“I don’t think it’s so easy,” Anders said in return.

“Nor,” Fenris said, “do I.” Sidonie glanced back. 

“Enough..” she murmured.

And then she caught sight of Karl, the mage standing atop the Chancel and peering up at the statue of Andraste as she had done herself not the day before. She felt a rush of cold in her blood and glanced back, swallowing. 

“Is that…is that him.” Anders nodded.

“Just let me talk to him,” he said again, this time sounding less certain. Sidonie held out a hand.

“Make it quick,” she said, and he led the way up the steps. As they climbed, their footsteps echoing too loudly on the steps because of the quiet atmosphere, Karl did not once look back. Instead he just kept gazing up at Andraste’s face. What was he thinking about? What was he - ?

His robes, a heavy grey silk hugged his form. His hair, a soft grey was short, a thick beard and mustache on his face that could give a dwarf a run for his money, though admittedly better groomed. 

Anders took the final step, and held out a hand to reach for him. And Sidonie saw his hand shaking. 

“Anders,” Karl said in a quiet voice, flat, strange, off. “I know you too well. I knew you would never give up,” he said. Anders let his hand fall, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. Sidonie took the final step up as well, looking between them with hesitation.

“What’s wrong?” Anders asked, and the fear. “Why are you talking like – ?“

Sidonie felt the Veil ripple, tensed against the spirits pushing at the other side. Karl slowly turned to them. His eyes were flat, cold, dead, on his head the Chantry sunburst burned into his flesh. Anders stiffened. Karl stared at him with his dead eyes.

“I was too rebellious, like you,” he said, a voice devoid of all emotion. Sidonie’s lips parted in horror. She stared. Her defenses dropped. She simply stared. Beside her, Anders let out a shaking breath. “The Templars knew I had to be…made an example of.”

“No!” Anders shook his head, the word tearing from his throat. He reached into his pocket, digging out a crumpled letter which he held out to Karl. “No, Karl, you told me…you _told_ me…! Right here! Right here, you said - !”

“How else will mages ever master themselves?” Karl said in a sick shadow of his former person. Sidonie recoiled, taking a step back. Anders took a step forward. “You’ll understand, Anders.”

“Karl!” his voice broke, his eyes were brimming with tears. Sidonie could see the weight of the world shatter across him and leave him bloodied in its wake. He had not heard it, the subtle, emotionless warning. _You’ll understand._ She reached for Anders’s arm.

“Anders..!” she warned. He ripped his arm from her grasp, face crumpling as he took another step forward.

And then the creak of bowstrings, the clanking of metal armor, broke the silence from the chambers about them, the balcony above. Sidonie looked up in alarm, Anders with her, and they stared. 

“Maker…” Sidonie gasped. Anders tightened his grip on his staff.

“This is the apostate,” Karl’s dead voice said simply. Sidonie looked back at him as he motioned to Anders, then reached for her halberd, glancing up to the archers. 

_Shit._

Down a few steps, Carver was gripping his greatsword handle with white knuckles.

There were too many. They could never – !

She did not know what the rest of the thought might have been. The power of the smite directed at them knocked her clean to the chancel floor, sending the breath from her, the magic away. She gave a sharp cry of pain, and Anders beside her groaned, struggling to heave himself up. She heard yelling – Carver? 

And then she glanced to Anders, who forced himself to his hands and knees, his crumpled letter on the floor, and his eyes flashing a bright and burning blue.

“NO!” he roared, and the voice was an echo of magic and power and rage. And then the blue light rippled out further, flickering across his flesh, burning with ethereal fires at his feet as he forced himself up. 

“YOU WILL NEVER TAKE ANOTHER MAGE AS YOU TOOK HIM!” Sidonie stared through her loose hair, feeling a shock of fear and panic, and watched as he reached for the magic to destroy them all.

“ANDERS!” she screamed at the same time another smite came out of nowhere, and this time reflected clear away. And then Isabela threw her knife.

The first of the Templar archers went down, toppling over the balcony to the ground. Sidonie hauled herself up, filled herself with all the magic she dared, and called down flames at the steps as a group of armed men raced their way. They scattered, superheated in their metal armor like being cooked alive, and the scent of burning flesh and the sound of screams made her stomach turn. 

Varric casually cocked Bianca, firing a round across the opposite balcony. Anders’s blue flames rippled across the floor, wiping more of the Templars clean from their feet. Isabela flung herself into the fray, darting back and forth, finding the weaknesses in their armor as Carver took up a defensive stance at the top of the steps, blocking the way to them. 

And then Sidonie called down force. The Chantry tile split in two, smashed by the power she unleashed. The Templars hit the ground just as she and Anders had, and she did it again to make sure _they_ did not get up again. Behind her, the effigy of Andraste stared down disapprovingly, the Maker’s eyes angry at the blood shed in his house. And it was shed. It pooled from the gaps of their helmets into the cracks of the Chantry floor. 

Anders swung his staff, barely missing her, and bolts of spiritual energy which slammed into the Templars atop the overlook. Sidonie reached up and twisted the Veil about them, crushing their armor until they fell limp and the bows dropped from their hands.

And then suddenly it was quiet, except for their panting, and Anders’s eyes returned to normal, and Sidonie looked to him, staff ready, in case she had to fight him next. He let out a breath, then a sob, and glanced towards Karl.

Karl’s dead grey eyes were bright and frightened now. And tears swam in them.

“I…Anders?” he gasped, his voice a little hoarse. “What did you _do_?” It was no longer the empty, soulless voice before. It was warm, quiet, caring, and surprised. “It’s like…you brought a piece of the Fade into this world. I had already forgotten what that feels like…” Sidonie looked to him, her own eyes full of frightened tears that went unshed, and then to Anders.

“What did you do?” she asked warily. “Not the Fade part, the angry glowing bit.” 

“It’s like a gateway to the Fade inside you!” Karl said sharply. “Glowing like a beacon!” Anders shifted, shaking. 

“I have some…unique circumstances, yes,” he said hesitantly, then took a step forward. “But Karl…what happened? How did they get you?” Karl bent to pick up Anders’s letter, what remained of the battered thing, and swallowed hard.

“The Templars here are far more vigilant than in Ferelden,” he replied quietly. “They found a letter I was writing you.” The look on Anders’s face almost broke Sidonie’s heart in spite of herself, but she drew a deep breath. It was dangerous to stay. If this…change…if this was permanent, well…

“You cannot imagine it, Anders,” Karl said softly. “All the color, all the music in the world…gone. I would gladly give up my magic. But this…? I’ll never be whole again.” A tear escaped Anders, and it dripped down his cheek. Sidonie gave a soft, shaking breath. 

She was staring at what could have been, staring at her own fate…

She had heard stories. Her father had warned her of the practice of Tranquility, made sure she was aware of the dangers of using magic in front of others from the earliest moments her magic had blossomed. 

She felt her stomach twist, her head ache. She gritted her teeth. And then something came over Karl, a ragged desperation. His calm and collected exterior slipped into desperation, the tears in his eyes slipping out too, silent and rolling down his cheeks. He caught Anders by the hand. 

“Please!” he begged. “Kill me now before I forget again? I don’t know how you brought it back, but it’s fading!” Anders’s face contorted. His fingers tangled with Karl’s. He stepped forward until he could press their foreheads together, his bare atop Karl’s chantry mark. Sidonie’s lips parted. She felt dizzy. And then she stepped forward too.

“Anders… _help_ him,” she said, more forcibly than she meant. Anders broke down, a sob escaped him, and then he drew back.

“I got here too late,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, Karl.” Karl just met his eyes with his own tear gaze and shook his head. Anders reached for magic, a sharp, searing cold, and then in an instant Karl was gone. Anders caught him as he fell, bent over his body, tears splashing down onto his silk robes as he hung his head.

“I’m so sorry…” he murmured over the body. Sidonie blinked back her anguish, turned about, and headed for the stairs, running her free hand through her tangled hair and pushing it from her face. Her eyes caught sight of Carver, covered in blood, and she caught her breath before realizing it belong to a Templar slumped across the steps at his feet.

“We have to go,” she said sharply, glancing back. Anders was still bent over Karl. “Anders! We have to _go_.” He looked up, eyes red-rimmed, and then tore the crumpled letter from Karl’s dead fingers. 

“I can’t use fire,” he told her in a weak voice. So she did it for him, tearing for the strength, sending shockwaves as she reached across the Veil for the power. His body flared, and then the Templars, and he gave her a quiet look.

“I’m not leaving anyone dead in a Chantry like that,” she said coldly. “Now let’s go.” He nodded, and she turned away, brushing past Carver, hurrying for the door.

There was shouting again in the streets. Isabela gave her a worried look, then broke from their group, motioning for them to take the immediate steps from the courtyard down towards the backstreets of Lowtown.

“Go,” she said, “I’ll draw them off. Meet up for drinks later.” But there was worry in her eyes as she took off at a light-paced jog. The rest of them stumbled down the steps, Anders barely able to keep his feet, and into the nearest drainage pipe into the sewers of Darktown.

Anders made it that far and then ended up falling back, leaning into the sewer wall, clutching a hand over his mouth and holding back the tears that were threatening to escape. Sidonie glanced back, then sighed, waving the others on, reaching to catch his hand, to steer him back along the corridors. Above them in the streets, armored guardsmen, possibly Templars, were shouting out orders.

“It isn’t safe…” she said. It was not enough of an excuse either. But it was all she had. And all he had. The Warden nodded.

“I know.” 

They hurried along through the stench of Darktown, pushing through the people gathered about trash fires and impromptu camps of refugees and criminals. Some stared as they went by. Sidonie did not care. It was not a truly strange sight to see people covered in blood in Darktown. But perhaps they were more confused because it was their medic.

And Anders _was_ their medic. They reached the clinic he had established shortly after. The lanterns were dark, as Anders had been out, and she did nothing to light the external ones, but she did slide the door shut as Anders peeled away from her, using the magic of force. And then she kindled the lanterns with flame beckoned from the Fade. And when that was done, she checked on all the others. Carver sank wearily into a seat against a table, his face pale, and smeared some of the blood across his face without meaning to. Fenris was pacing, glaring angrily at the floor as he did so, lyrium markings flickering with anger. Varric just looked at her, making the same sort of checks, and then sighed.

“Well…shit,” he murmured. 

Sidonie looked up then to Anders, to the danger of what had happened then, and a flicker of anger settled into her now the fear was slowly subsiding. She stepped towards him, then thought better of it. His back was turned, leaning a second table, shoulders hunched over. Sidonie drew a deep breath.

“So,” she called to him. “Let me guess. This is the part where _you_ tell me you’re an _abomination_?!” Anders stiffened, and then he carefully pushed himself up, turning to look at her with hooded, red eyes.

“You’re wrong,” he said. It was a quiet, rippling anger in his voice. “But not far wrong.” She raised an eyebrow and he sighed, looking away. “I…this is hard to explain.”

“Try,” she suggested. “We nearly died up there, today. And your….glowing...whatever it is…that almost cost us too.” He pursed his lips.

“When I was in Amaranthine, I met a spirit of Justice who was trapped outside the Fade,” he finally said. “We became friends, and he recognized the injustice that mages in Thedas face every day.” She shook her head, and he caught her reservations. “Just as demons prey on the deadly sins of mankind, there are good spirits that embody our virtues!” he insisted.

“I am aware of spirits,” she told him curtly, giving him a sharp glare. 

“They are the Maker’s first children,” he said, almost like trying to convince himself. A die-hard Andrastian then? Murdering people in the Chantry? Maker, none of today made sense. “And they have all but given up on us.”

“And what does this have to do with your eyes glowing?” she said pointedly. He fixed her with a dark look, angry. She bore it. She was angry too. 

“To live outside the Fade, he needed a host,” he told her firmly. “I offered to help him.” She gave a mirthless laugh, dropping her arms and running a hand into her hair again. “We were going to work together,” he insisted, “bring justice to every child ever ripped away from his mother to be sent to the Circle. But I guess I had too much anger. Once he was inside me, he…changed.” She looked up, gritting her teeth.

“So you have this…Spirit of Justice living in your head.” She saw the crease of irritation at the corner of his eyes.

“It’s not like that,” he told her. “He’s gone now. He’s…part of me. It’s not like we can…have a conversation. I feel his thoughts as my own. Not even the greatest scholar could tell you where I end and he begins.” Sidonie shook her head. She could see Carver burying his head in his hands out of the corner of her eye. 

“That really didn’t look like a happy, benevolent spirit from where I was standing,” she said coolly. Anders shook his head. 

“The Templars will think the same,” Carver added, looking up, twisting back to look at her. “We’re ‘friends’ with a monster.”

“Since _when_ is justice happy?” Anders demanded. “Justice is righteous. Justice is _hard_.”

“Of course!” It was Fenris near the door, his sword still bloodied at his back, eyeing them up with narrowed, darkened eyes. “No harm _ever_ comes from good intentions, even when magic is involved.” Sidonie sighed, putting out a hand, ready to silence them all, but Anders just turned his back, looking at the wall.

“Normally, I would argue that,” he said softly. “I wanted to do well by Justice, I really did. But my _anger_. When I see Templars now, things that have _always_ outraged me but I could never do anything about… _he_ comes out. And he is no longer my friend Justice. He is a force of vengeance, and he has no grasp of mercy.” Maker, what a mess. Vengeance was corrupted, the demon form of Justice. She grimaced. The man before her was an abomination, though he yet walked in his own skin, and that implied…some sort of control at least.

“Can you control it?” she asked simply. He sighed, giving a miserable grimace.

“No. He comes only when I’ve lost all power over myself. It’s a madness, a frenzy. I only find out _after_ what I might have done.” That was enough for her. She was in enough danger already. She could not afford this madness, this frenzy he spoke of. He as much as admitted to being out of control when his anger flared, and she had anger enough of her own to contend with. She tore away, pacing across the room. 

“Look,” she said as simply as she was able. “I am sorry about your friend. And thank you for looking after my brother’s ribs. But…we can’t be a part of this. We just…need the maps, and then we’ll go.” He turned away, and she watched as he crossed to a bag and flung it open, digging through the contents before drawing out some documents from within. They were battered, looked very old, but he held them out to her. 

“Here,” he said bitterly. “These are all the documents I have for this area. I can understand if you would rather me _not_ join you personally.” She took them, nodded, and then backed away. 

“Take care of yourself, Anders,” she said quietly. 

“I will be here in my clinic if you need me,” he replied softly. “Whatever else, you tried to help. And…I owe you at least for that.” Sidonie did not look back, she just kept walking. She had had enough.

***

Amgarrak proved as unwelcoming as its exterior had been. As they entered the vast main hall, where dwarven architecture formed rooms that reminded Nathaniel uncomfortably of Kal’Hirol, they were both horrified and alarmed to find that the thaig itself was defended by ancient and strange magics. Behind them, across the door, a barrier of green shimmered into place as they left the threshold, sealing them within. Sigrun took one look at it and gave a mirthless laugh. Jerrik Dace panicked.

“What the - ?!” he shot about, and Nate stepped back so as not to get caught himself.

“Do _not_ touch it,” he heard himself say. Jerrik gave him a dark look.

“What sort of magic is this?!” he demanded. 

“We’ll have to find a different way out,” Sigrun said simply. At her side, the golem stood, silent and steady, peering into the depths of the thaig.

“This…this place,” Nathaniel said quietly. “It was not lost because of the darkspawn, was it?” 

“We don’t really know, Warden,” Jerrik admitted.

“I don’t know we really want to find out, either,” Sigrun shot back quietly. Her axes were glinting in the eerie glow of the green barrier. “We don’t want to wait around for something else to trap us,” she added. “Time to get off the steps.” She led the way down herself, plowing onward like only a Legionnaire could. Nathaniel followed, keeping an arrow loosely nocked at his bow just in case. 

At the foot of the stairs, the thaig opened up into a number of different chambers, but of those only one was unblocked. There were flickering, oddly colored lights that spoke of more strange magic ahead.

“Have…have the dwarves ever had magic?” Nathaniel asked, feeling foolish for the question, but to be honest, with all the evidence before him, he was not sure what to make of it, and even the most outlandish considerations were worth giving some ear to. Sigrun just gave him a solemn look.

“Fade nonsense?” Jerrik barked a laugh. “Ancestors, Warden, no.” Nathaniel remained unconvinced. When the very thaig itself crackled with magic, from the weird Blighted winds to the strange waves of blue, and now the barriers of various different colors, he had a hard time not questioning that fact. 

“Then how,” he asked quietly, “do genlocks have magic?” Jerrik’s face fell, and he stared silently a moment, but he had no answer.

“Lieutenant.” Sigrun’s voice was lower down, at the base of the steps where a giant brazier atop a pillar of thick, sturdy stone flickered away on a supply of oil. “You should see this.”

“At least we know the expedition made it this far,” Nathaniel said before following her across the rugged flagstones. There, still shining dimly, dry but not old, was a splatter of blood. “Maker…”

There was a strange scuttling noise, and he whipped about immediately, staring down his drawn arrow towards the source. But it was down, down in the depths below the suspended floor, somewhere deeper into the thaig. Sigrun, one axe at the ready, inched her way forwards, silent as anything, and then carefully bent over to check.

And then she relaxed, loosening her grip on her axe, and shaking her head. She stared into the depths, which glowed a bright and brilliant blue.

“There’s your magic,” she said softly, motioning. Nathaniel sidestepped the blood splatters and peered down after her. At the bottom, glowing so brightly it hurt his eyes, was so much lyrium he was having a hard time focusing. He blinked, stepping back, and she met his gaze. “Not unexpected,” she added, motioning to her golem. “They altered this one somehow.” The golem stood, silent and steady, waiting for her to move on. 

Jerrik grimaced, looking back to the splatter of blood.

“Whatever that was,” he said, “did _this_. And it didn’t sound like a dwarf or any creature I recognize. I don’t like this.” He knelt to examine the pool of blood, enough that someone was badly injured at least, and grimaced. “Warden…”

“We can’t stay here,” Nathaniel said, his voice imbued with more confidence than he actually felt. “We’re safer moving, and we have not found the expedition yet.” But he was beginning to think there may not be even remains to find at this point. 

And then he heard it again, the scuttling. He turned towards the nearest hall, and plunged down it, swift and silent, sliding into the depths. If he could find whatever it was that was stalking the halls, he could at least stop long enough to think. They were not safe until he had a better idea what they were dealing with.

The first hit came out of nowhere, and it was by the grace of Sigrun’s presence alone he did not take it full on. He toppled to the ground as she shoved him hard forward. Above him, a stone golem towered. 

And then Sigrun’s golem got in the way, catching its stone arms with its metal ones, blocking the next hit. Nathaniel took the opportunity to scramble up, to seize his arrow and get clear, and then he heard the crumble of stone, the creak of metal, as the rest of the room awoke.

Golems, sentinels guarding the chamber, stirred, driven to attack by whatever command they had been left with before their long slumber. Nathaniel found himself on the defensive, darting under the creatures. They were slow, and for that he was lucky. They made him think of ogres, of the Inferno Golem in Kal’Hirol that had almost stolen his life away from him. His mind stopped. His body functioned alone.

And he fought.

Jerrik’s bronto snug charged past, barely missing him and knocking through the nearest metal golem. There was a wrenching sound of warping metal as it toppled, shredded to the ground, and snug reared up to stop down until its glowing eyes went dim. Their own golem wrenched a stone free from its opponent, hammering down hard until its head split in two and it collapsed as well. 

And then it did something strange. It extended its arms, and with a great echoing roar, filled the air with lightning. It crackled and sparked, made Nathaniel’s hair stand on end, and danced across the other remaining golems, striking hard, fast. It felled the other metal one almost instantly, and the other stone one not long afterward. And then it fell silent, the lightning dropped away, and the chamber reverted to its original state of tenuous peace. Nathaniel stared, and so did Sigrun.

“Sodding golems!” Jerrik roared. “Nearly got us all killed!” 

“It saved your _life_!” Sigrun spat back.

“It is a machine. It does not save my life! Did _you_ tell it to do that?!” Sigrun shook her head.

“No. Most golems _can’t_ do that. Whatever it is doing, it is doing of its own volition!” Jerrik stormed up, closing the distance between them, and the golem gave a threatening rumble. Snug the bronto gave a low growl in reply. Nathaniel stared.

“Does this really matter?! It _did_ save us!” he said sharply. “We would be dead if not for that.”

“Golems,” Jerrik said darkly, “are tools, Warden. They exist to help us.”

“They are _people_!” Sigrun spat. “They are your dwarven brothers and sisters, trapped for an eternity in stone.”

“A sacrifice willingly made and appreciated! Which is _why_ we are here in the first place. But this one…” Jerrik glared up at the golem, and Sigrun raised her chin.

“This one saved us,” she said again. “Next time, maybe it won’t bother.” She glanced back to the runed golem. “Though, sod it if I know how it managed the lightning.” 

“There’s too much magic here,” Nathaniel finally said. “It’s all wrong, all of it. The entire place is crackling. I’m no mage and even I can feel it at the edges of this place. Whatever they did here when it was operational has damaged the Veil irreparably here. It’s…seeping out into the rest of the citadel. So forgive me if I am not entirely concerned about a golem throwing some lightning down on us. We don’t even know how it was altered before. Maybe they found a way?” He gritted his teeth, feeling a wash of anger. “We can’t stay here. We have to carry on.”

“More carefully this time,” Sigrun told him with a warning. “There may be more.” 

“Really?” he asked weakly. How many more did she expect? 

She glanced towards the back wall where the other golems had stood before the fight, and pointed to a signpost.

“Says ‘Do not taunt sentinel golems’,” she said simply.

“The brand can read then, I see,” Jerrik snapped. Sigrun shot him a glare, and Jerrik shook his head. “Where is the control rod?” he insisted. “I will take it. If there are more, they will answer to my will.” Sigrun stepped back as he stepped forward, keeping the distance between them.

“You will not.”

“We will die if they attack us again. We were lucky this time.”

“I am not giving you the control rod so you can enslave these golems!”

“They’re not people!” Jerrik roared. “They were once, and they gave up their lives to protect and defend the dwarven race and the empire! Did you not give such an oath yourself?!” Sigrun glared. Nathaniel sighed.

“Enough,” he said, “or _I_ will take the rod, and both of you can stay here.” Sigrun looked to him sheepishly.

“My apologies, Lieutenant.” Nathaniel looked to Jerrik. 

“As for you, I’ve told you already. We are not here to help you find golems, even if they’re the sentinel ones. We came to find your expedition. Focus on that. Focus on your brother.” Jerrik licked his lips.

“You’re right,” he conceded. “Brogan must come first.” Not a complete capitulation, but a start at least. Nathaniel glanced about the chamber, then closed his eyes to listen before nodding.

“Whatever came this way, it’s gone now. I’m sure we’ll cross its path again, so keep on your guard. And let me know if there are any other weirdly colored waves of magic. I’m worried we haven’t seen one since we arrived.” 

“It isn’t a wave,” Sigrun said, motioning towards the far end of the room, “but it _is_ weird and blue.” Nathaniel followed her gaze to the far end where a chest stood against the wall, but it was translucent, and strange. He narrowed his gaze. 

“Is it…real?” Jerrik asked, crossing to it. When he reached a hand out to touch the lid, his fingers slipped right through it. “An illusion? What magic is this?” 

“I really don’t like this,” Nathaniel murmured, then turned his back on the chest. “Prepare for more strange things ahead. I have a feeling this has only just begun.” 

He led the way more carefully then, nocking his arrow again to be on the safe side, determined not to be taken by surprise again. Jerrik stayed close, Snug just behind, and Sigrun and her golem brought up the rear. Not for the first time, and probably not for the last at this rate, Nathaniel wished for Velanna. She at least would be better equipped to handle things like the magical waves, and she could heal if they were injured. Right now, he felt very exposed, very vulnerable, and – he reminded himself – very trapped. 

The corridors twisted and turned where a few of the walls had caved in over time. They followed them quietly, Nathaniel always listening ahead for the strange scuttling, the odd sound. He did not hear it, but there was the strange dripping of water that was disconcerting in a place they could not escape. Even so, perhaps it would prove a way out. He decided to focus on that, hoping it would be enough. He had no choice. Everything else was too horrible, too strange. 

Maker, where was Anders? Did he miss the strangeness? 

Nathaniel grimaced and thought of Justice then too. At least if Anders was playing host as presumed, the pair of them together might have made better sense of the thaig. But then, Anders hated the Deep Roads as much as Nathaniel did. 

He sighed, took the final turning, and stopped dead in his tracks.

There was a dwarf standing in the middle of the corridor, bright blue like the chest, like the waves of magic had been. His voice was a strange echo that made Nathaniel think a great deal of Justice then, and he grimaced.

“They died…I must be quiet,” he was muttering to himself. Jerrik drew up short.

“Brogan!” he cried. And then before Nathaniel could stop him, he hurried forward. Nathaniel motioned back to Sigrun, who gave a nod and pushed ahead to make sure there was no trap waiting, no scuttling creature prepared to pounce in the darkness. Then Nathaniel made his way across to Jerrik’s side. 

Brogan did not even seem to realize they were there.

“What’s wrong with him?” Jerrik demanded, and Nathaniel swallowed. “This…magic. This light.” Jerrik put out a hand but as with the chest it went right through. “I can’t even touch him! Brogan! Brother! Can you hear me?!” Nathaniel put a hand out, catching Jerrik’s pauldron and pulling him back. They did not want to be loud there. Jerrik gave him a dark look, but before he could say a word, the blue shade of Brogan spoke again.

“Pitter patter, pitter patter,” Brogan whispered, twisting to glanced down the hallway towards where Sigrun was standing guard with the golem. “Listen! Shadows…they whisper…”

“What is this?” Jerrik asked, and he sounded scared as he looked back at Nathaniel for answers. “Some sort of surfacer curse?” He reached to grasp Nathaniel’s breastplate strap with thick hands, yanking on it in a barely controlled panic. “He’s here! I can see him! He’s still alive!” Nathaniel tore his grip from his breastplate and shook his head.

“Something’s happened to him,” he said sharply. “We won’t know what until we find out what happened _here_.” Jerrik grimaced, looking more unhappy than when the golem’s lightning had nearly hit him, but he gave a small, uncomfortable nod.

“I hope you’re right, Warden. I’m not leaving this place without him.” He looked once more at his younger brother, and Nathaniel grimaced. “I’m going to save you, Little Brother. Just hold on.” Nathaniel might have said the same once, but it had been far too long since he and Thomas had spoken, and Thomas was dead and gone of the Blight now. If it had been Delilah though…Yes…There…

He channeled that thought into empathy, into determination, and sidestepped Brogan and Jerrik both.

“Come on,” he said softly. “We’ll find answers ahead.” And something else just as horrible, but the magic seemed settled here, or at least controlled. The scuttling pitter patter of feet was the more immediate enemy, and tracking was something he could do. He intended to do it now. He focused then on the sound of dripping water, then glanced back to his company who were waiting for his lead. “Alright,” he said at last, “follow me.” But Maker he would rather be literally anywhere else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES:
> 
> I changed a little bit about the setting of the Anders and Karl meeting (why would Karl meet them upstairs where the beds are? That's strange...XD). There are scene changes as well for story continuity and added impact. It felt very...dry, so I made it MORE heartbreaking? XP
> 
> As for Nate and Amgarrak, some added dialogue here. Amgarrak as a DLC is...tedious and boring. The lore is awesome, but the actual gameplay is more about the challenge and less about the interesting factor (from a story standpoint). While there IS a story, I'm adding to it significantly here and also altering some points as well in order to maintain the SPIRIT of the story and the awesome lore that we'll need later ;) while also making sure it's not an equally tedious read. So...I'd love to hear comments/thoughts on how that is going. XD I have the flexibility to fix it up as it rolls on if people are finding it lackluster.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie flees Kirkwall in the aftermath of the Chantry incident; Cullen and Aveline deal with another magical crime scene; Carver reflects on Ostagar while Sidonie deals with fear; Sidonie decides the time has come to finally settle her debt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence, gore
> 
> Comments always welcome and appreciated!
> 
> Like Dances? Check out the [tumblr page](http://higheverrains.tumblr.com/) for Dances pictures, character interviews, and meta/lore.

Sidonie fastened her coat quickly and then checked her pockets, making sure she had everything she might need. She still felt filthy, even with the blood washed clean from her hands, and she was constantly looking over her shoulder.

She had killed Templars. They had seen her. She had used magic in front of them.

It was something she had done many times before, packing up because someone had been discovered – herself, Bethany, their father, Malcolm. But this time she could not run. There was nowhere else to go. Her mother would stay, and it was not fair to make Leandra move, when this had been her initiative, her mistake. 

Two nights running she had shed blood on the Chantry’s doorstep or within its very halls. Two nights running. She had not slept all night, had hardly managed to regain a sense of self after what she had witnessed.

Part of her mind still could not. She thought of Karl, of the brand on his forehead, and recoiled from her own thoughts. Instead, she shoved a poultice into another of her pockets just in case, a roll of bandages, and a small amount of coin.

The door swung open and she jumped, but it was just Carver, clad in one of Uncle Gamlen’s cloaks. He looked to her with harrowed eyes, as nervous as she. He had killed the Templars along with her.

“Isabela says they’re not watching the gates. We can slip by if we play our cards right.” 

“And Varric?” Sidonie asked quietly. She was loathe to leave him. He had stuck by them when he did not have to. She could already hear the backlash coming, the roar of it the blood pounding in her ears. She did not even want to think of what would happen when the Templars came. And they had to. Someone would tell. Hers was a secret enough people knew, and Anders was not difficult to find either. He would not keep her secret…

Or perhaps he would? Though he had no reason to do so. They were not friends. They were thrown together into unfortunate circumstances.

She shoved the Deep Roads Maps he had given them inside her jacket and then reached for her mother’s simple woolen cloak. She had borrowed it without asking, left a note on the table in the room she and Carver had shared explaining that the Templars may come looking and they were off to lay low for awhile. Leandra had been through it as well, but Sidonie had seen the exhaustion on her face, knew that she just wanted to settle, to find a home, and with grandfather’s will and her noble friends in the city, she could make a life in Kirkwall where they could not.

Carver, holding a sack of purchased food, nodded to her he was ready. His sword hilt stood over his shoulder, buckled on over Gamlen’s cloak.

“It’s now or never, Sidonie,” he said quietly. “If we don’t go soon, we’ll miss the dawn crowds.” Sidonie swallowed, hard, her eyes swimming with tears she forced back.

“Maker, did you see the way he – ” she forced the thoughts of Karl away. No, she could not be like that. She simply drew a deep breath, reaching to fill herself with magic, and feeling it swell inside her. And then she let out the breath in a heavy sigh, letting flames dance across her fingers. Carver did not even stop her.

“Alright. Let’s go,” she said. 

“Do you have the amulet?” She nodded. She had checked when rifling through her pockets, but honestly she was never without it. It was a promise unkept. And…well she hoped in the keeping she might find a new way to go forward as well.

She slipped out of the door, pulling up the hood of her mother’s cloak, and was alarmed to find Fenris standing atop the landing outside Gamlen’s apartment in his long black coat as conspicuous as ever.

“Fenris.”

“Hawke.” She paused, considering him, and when he gave no explanation as to his presence, she swallowed. 

“You can’t be thinking – ?”

“I’m coming with you.” She drew a breath.

“But…you don’t even like mages…” He considered her with a flat, forest green gaze under his smooth white hair and black eyebrows. 

“I could tell you many reasons, but you already know them,” he said simply. “But our debt still stands.” He glanced to Carver momentarily, then drew a breath. “Regardless, the commotion may yet get back to Danarius’s slavers.” Sidonie sighed, then nodded and pulled her cloak tighter about herself. At least in the early hours with the stiff breeze sweeping up off the docks there was a certain available excuse to be wearing it at all. That was to their advantage.

They took the streets skirting the market to remain out of sight of Aveline’s guardsmen doing rounds. It would not throw off any Templars, but for the moment they simply looked like two mercenaries and an elf with somewhere to be. By the time they reached the gates that led out into the city, Kirkwall’s morning bustle was underway, the early risers setting about bringing their wares out to sell. Not many people were entering and exiting the city, though a caravan of silk and leather merchants had arrived from the road from Starkhaven and were undergoing inspections. In the interest of making their passing less obvious, they split up to make their way through the generic chaos of the caravan wagons.

To watch Fenris blend in to the crowd was something out of a dream. Even with his lyrium markings, which to be fair were mostly covered by his long black coat, he was able to slip in relatively unnoticed. Shortly afterward he disappeared entirely. Carver took a more direct route, hauling their sack of provisions over his shoulder and looking for all the world like he was on a solo journey. That left Sidonie alone.

She was carrying her halberd rather than holstering it at her back. It meant she looked more like a mercenary than otherwise. She twisted it in her grip a little, and then she began to whistle. She picked Andraste’s Mabari for the ease and the general popularity among Ferelden mercenaries. One of the guards jeered as she passed, another reached for her shoulder to turn her about, but she brushed him off as she made her way through, forcing herself to keep an unhurried pace despite the hassle. If she were to rush, she would only alert them to her presence. As it was, the guard who had reached for her was more likely interested in more personal sort of company. She gave him a wink, and he smirked, then left her to it.

On the other side of the caravans, she reunited with Carver, who had carried on up the path, and Fenris, who was loitering near the far side of the gate among the caravans. The elf gave her a look, a raised eyebrow, and she just shook her head. There was no need to alert Carver to handsy guards. He would just get annoyed, and maybe enough so to go back and have words, and they really needed to get as far from their as they could.

So they started walking. At first they travelled in silence, climbing the sandy sloped paths towards the Wounded Coast and Sundermount. Sidonie was panting for breath from the incline before they finally did speak.

“I assume you have a plan?” It was Fenris at her back. She gave a wild laugh, turning about and walking backwards a moment to give him a level stare.

“Why does everyone _always_ assume I have a plan? I _never_ have a plan. It’s the reason everything goes so terribly, awfully wrong all the time.” She could hear the despair in her voice. Carver rescued her from it.

“Usually when this happens we pick a direction and walk, but…we’ll find a smuggler cave to hole up for the night probably and see if there are signs of pursuit in the morning.” 

“Eventually,” Sidonie added, nodding to Carver, “we want to seek out the Dalish.” 

“I didn’t realize you were an elf,” Fenris said, his voice laced with sarcasm. Sidonie reached into her pocket and pulled forth the medallion given her by the Witch of the Wilds outside Lothering. She turned it over in her hands, then gave it a toss, catching it and holding it up for inspection before him.

“We are keeping a promise,” she said. He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing for a moment. And then he finally gave a small nod.

“I heard tell of a band that passed this way fleeing the Blight.” Sidonie glanced to him.

“We were told they’d be near Sundermount,” Carver added softly, and then he paused a moment, lowering the sack from his shoulder and sighing. “We’ve come far enough for now. Let’s see if we can’t find a hole that isn’t infested with spiders.” 

They made their way down towards the shoreline then, picking their way over rocks off the beaten trail, careful not to leave signs of their descent. There were any number of crevasses and caves along the cliffs of the Wounded Coast, and they choose a small recess that appeared, upon inspection, to be empty. The location looked out over the sea, under an overhang where they were unlikely to be discovered, with an entrance that demanded they go forward one at a time.

Sidonie took the lead, summoning fire to her hand and holding it there to light the way. It was only a small cave, when all was said and done, ideal, and devoid of trouble. That decided, Carver set down his pack, and he and Fenris disappeared out onto the coast to find driftwood for a small fire for dark. 

Sidonie sank into a seat, her back to the cold stone wall, and peered towards the cave entrance with the cold chill of memory chasing down her. She curled her knees up to her chest, wrapped herself into a ball, and let the firelight go out. She was plunged into the darkness then, alone with her thoughts, and they were the stuff of nightmares.

She allowed herself to think of Karl, to fear that fate and feel repulsed at the very idea of being stripped of her humanity. She thought of Anders, the demon within him, and how it would be to lose all sense of self in moments of rage. She thought of the bodies, felled before Andraste’s cold, metal gaze. And she thought of the last time she had sat, curled, in a cave in the darkness, fleeing for her life.

By the time Fenris and Carver had returned, the afternoon was shifting into evening, and a fire was more than welcome to chase away the darkness of the cave, even if it could do nothing to ward off the darkness in her soul. Carver sensed the shift in her, and for once he said nothing. Instead he pulled a loaf of bread from the sack of provisions and broke it into three. 

Sidonie took hers, unaware of how hungry she actually was until food was in hand. She had gotten used to being hungry. Fenris murmured a moment of thanks, peering towards the door, and then Sidonie settled back.

“So, if they come after us, which way do we head?”

“Somewhere…somewhere they won’t think of,” she said quietly. She had a headache. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to – 

She forced herself to feel, to acknowledge everything. She forced herself to recognize she had some emotional connection to the world left. She reached out with magic a moment to toy with the fire.

“Hawke…” She looked up at Fenris, startled, and then sighed.

“Sorry. Just…worried.” He simply nodded. In the firelight, the lyrium markings across his flesh seemed to glow like flames themselves. Sidonie blinked, considering them. She caught Carver following her gaze, and then he sighed, leaning forward.

“You know, Fenris,” he said softly, “I have a tattoo.” Fenris quirked an eyebrow. “Lots of us got them before Ostagar. It’s a Mabari. For strength.” He was staring at his bread now. Fenris sniffed.

“Does it curse you with the ability to reach into a man and tear out his insides?” he said archly. Carver looked up sharply, then grimaced.

“Uh…I can make it bark?” he offered shame-faced. 

“Please don’t.” Sidonie just grimaced and looked away with a sigh.

“Oh, Carver,” she murmured.

“Stop feeling sorry for me,” he snapped. “I...” He could not finish the sentence. Sidonie sighed again, closing her eyes.

“You lost many friends there,” Fenris said simply, and Carver was quiet a moment before he finally gave a soft sigh himself.

“Yes,” he replied. His voice was almost inaudible. “Many.” And he had never been the same. His hands were shaking around his bread when Sidonie glanced over. “I watched…I watched the horde kill King Cailan. I saw them swarm over everything, the stench, the shrieking, the screams… When we ran, they hunted us in the darkness.” Carver had never spoken of his flight from Ostagar, just shown up back at home with Lady, covered in the gore of battle, horrified. Bethany had calmed him somewhat, and then he had taken to hiding. “Those…monsters. And now we’re trying to plan our way down into the Deep Roads where they live, and the Templars are hunting us, and…this is all kinds of stupid.” He focused on his bread then, and Fenris shifted, crossing his arms.

“Then why are you doing it?”

“We don’t have a choice,” Sidonie said.

“Why are you even here? We killed Templars last night! Sidonie even used magic! Shouldn’t you be…off hunting that magister down and washing your hands clean of this?!” Carver snapped. Fenris gave a cold sneer.

“The blood never comes off,” he said shortly. “Danarius will send his dogs.”

“Carver…stop…” Sidonie said quietly. Carver shook his head.

“This whole thing is _stupid_ ,” he muttered again. Sidonie nodded then tore off some of her bread, her eyes flickering to Fenris.

“Thank you for coming,” she said, and he just stared at her with his unsettling eyes.

“They attacked you first. You did not want to go,” he said. She blinked, then nodded, ducking her head a little and finishing off her bread. And then she settled back against the wall. Fenris considered her, then leaned in to settle another log on their fire. “Were you not at Ostagar as well?” 

“No. But the darkspawn reached Lothering soon enough.” He nodded, then looked away. 

“On Seheron, I watched so many villages and towns get swallowed in the fighting,” he added quietly. “I watched people die on all sides. War is never pretty, and some prices are exacted in blood.” He was thinking of Danarius again, she knew, but Sidonie’s thoughts went to Bethany and she set her head back against the stone, drawing the medallion from her pocket. 

_Yes, they were._ She shook her head as she peered at it in the flickering low light. A promise yet to be kept, a way to find herself again. She closed her fingers tight about it and pressed her lips into a thick line.

 _Once again, Sidonie,_ she thought, _it is all your fault._

***

His armor felt constraining as he pushed through the door into the Chantry with a quiet resolve. Two nights running, and not a lead in sight. The previous evening, the one in the courtyard, that had been the work of a rogue apostate, possibly one known to the Templars but no one well-known to be picking fights in the courtyard of all places. The entire thing stank of desperation, and desperate mages were dangerous, but the bodies had been raiders.

These were Templars. He paused to consider the forms across the floor. There was a massive crack running the length of the Chantry tiles, like an earthquake had split the floor in the middle of the night. His men – his, dammit! – were strewn up the steps leading to the Chancel, or littering the balconies and the floors below. Blood smeared down one of the walls, and pooled across the cracked tile. He froze for a moment, feeling a race of panic, and schooled his mind to calm before swallowing hard. 

Grand Cleric Elthina stood with a few of her Sisters, her expression dark. She had her back to the entire thing, though a few of the Sisters were engaged in prayer. At her side, an angry looking Brother stood, clad in Chantry vestments, staring at the effigy of Andraste with the brightest blue eyes Cullen had ever seen.

There were guardsmen too. He recognized the new Guard Captain, Aveline Vallen, standing with her arms crossed over the scene with a face like thunder. He crossed to her, glancing only a moment at the Grand Cleric, and at his approach, she turned.

“You told me this would not end up a bloodbath, Knight-Captain,” she said sharply. “You told me that this would be controlled.” He met her gaze, a brilliant green, with his own soft brown. A fellow Ferelden, or so she sounded. She had served under King Cailan in the royal army if he remembered correctly. She never spoke of how she had arrived at Kirkwall, though he guessed she had come as a refugee during the Blight. She had the look of a woman who would brook no nonsense.

And frankly he did not wish to either. He shook his head.

“I had twenty men here last night.” 

“Your mage got away. Twenty men brought down by a mage?” That Anders was gone was obvious, but there was more to it that a mere escape. He had been with the order long enough, endured the training long enough, to recognize when the story was not nearly so simple. He crossed the stones, Guard Captain Vallen keeping up, undeterred.

He had thought the situation planned. He had been careful. After Samson’s ill-executed attempts to smuggle letters out for Maddox, Meredith had wanted to crack down on those trying to send unsanctioned letters out of the Gallows. It had been Cullen to convince her to let them continue, to trace them instead, to use the sources to their advantage. Instead of cracking down, he had quietly encouraged it, employed people willing to share the contents for a fee with plainly clothed hunters. Most letters were simply to family, or to loved ones. Those he simply commandeered when they could prove detrimental or allowed to slide through the cracks if they were entirely innocent. 

Some, though, were leads.

He had struck gold a few months back when he had intercepted a letter from Karl Thekla, a Senior Enchanter and expert in the Entropy school of magic. He had known Karl back at Kinloch Hold, and remembered him as a fairly placid man, interested in complex magical theory more than anything. But he had other associations, and those associations were more dangerous. 

It had been something of an open secret that Karl Thekla was the reason that the troublesome mage Anders – real name unknown – had remained in the Circle as long as he had. With a history of running away at every opportunity, Anders was the sort of apostate that had run his choices thin. When Cullen had taken his position at the Tower when he was finally made a Templar Knight, it had been Anders that they had warned him of at first. He was clever, too clever, and determined to be free. Determination made a man desperate. Desperation made a mage reach towards dark magic. Despite that, Anders had settled somewhat in the years that Cullen had worked at the tower. He had ceased his escape attempts, and the truth of the matter was no secret why. The man had tangled his fate up with Karl, who seemed to be the tether that bound him to the Circle.

This was the Anders Cullen had seen until the day that Knight-Commander Greagoir had arranged for Karl’s transfer to Kirkwall. When Anders had found out, he had cut and run again, and after his retrieval, he had been locked in the cells below Kinloch Hold to make sure he could not run again. Cullen had never been posted in the cells, but what he had seen of them, they were horrible. He remembered Solona’s body there after the Circle fell during the Blight, and shuddered. 

Anders had escaped for the final time before the Blight, and word had surfaced he had ended up conscripted by the King and Queen of Ferelden into the Wardens. But if he ever left, he would be apostate again. And, true to form, he had run, this time taking out an entire Templar patrol, headed by Ser Rolan. A demon had gone missing as well, and Cullen knew full well what happened when mages and demons mixed.

When Cullen had learned that Karl was writing to Anders, he had seized the opportunity to track the letters. He had discovered Anders was present within Kirkwall, and a plan had been made to free Karl from the Gallows. Cullen had brought the information to Knight-Commander Meredith’s attention, and together they had arranged a plan. With Karl as a lure, they could bring in the dangerous apostate Anders, and given his phylactery had apparently been smashed, it was the only chance they might be given. 

Cullen looked about at the remains of his handiwork, the remnants of his failed plan. Anders had not come alone. Cullen wondered a moment if the Wardens had been involved, then shoved the thought away when he found scorch marks atop the steps. Fire. Anders, from his dossier, had never been able to cast fire spells. This was another mage.

He thought of the courtyard, the reports from the previous night.

“Have we heard any information about the attack from the other day?” he asked quietly, looking to Guard Captain Vallen. She narrowed her gaze.

“The raiders? No. Nothing. Why?”

“I think that they may be the same mage,” Cullen said, pointing to the scorch marks. Then he looked about towards the Chantry Sisters. “And none of them saw anything?”

“They claim to have heard nothing, though the Chantry living quarters are further back, and if the fight was a quick one…” Guard Captain Vallen gave him a dark look. “Scorch marks do not immediately mean the two were related incidents.” 

“This apostate is dangerous, but they’re not using blood magic. That is, Maker forbid, rare in Kirkwall. It is easy for mages to reach across the Veil here, to summon demons, and most do. It is also rare for mages to approach the Chantry directly, but this is two nights running, both using fire spells.” He narrowed his gaze. “Fire,” he looked down towards the split tiles, “and force.” 

“That does not change the fact your plan failed. How many died last night to capture this apostate you were hunting?” the Guard Captain said. “I cannot condone such reckless action again, Knight-Captain. The city is restless as it is with the refugees, the Carta, the Coterie, and the Qunari.”

“No, we have lost him for the time being,” Cullen agreed darkly. “As for the losses, Templars know their duties. Their families will be…compensated.” He hated the thought. After Kinloch Hold, with so many of his friends dead, he had trouble trying to distance himself from this loss as well. He had seen Greagoir writing the notices to families of those who had been lost. Many did not even have families – Chantry orphans taken in. Some had been raised in these very halls under the metal gaze of Kirkwall’s Andraste. He grimaced, forcing down the darkness that swelled, the anger that threatened to overcome him. His hands were shaking a little. “We will take care of the bodies,” he said softly. And then he looked up to where the charred remains of a mage, tattered remnants of burnt silk hanging about his form, lay. Karl. “All of them.” Many of the Templars had been set alight as well, a bastardization of an Andrastian burial.

Guard Captain Vallen pursed her lips, then sighed.

“I don’t envy you,” she said. “My…my Wesley was a Templar.” He looked back, and she bowed her head a little. “He was taken from me in the Blight.” He sighed, bowing his head.

“The Light shall lead him safely though the paths of this world, and into the next. For he who trusts in the Maker, fire is his water. As the moth sees light and goes toward the flame, he should see fire and go towards Light. The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and he shall know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be his beacon and his shield, his foundation and his sword,” he incanted, and when he looked back Guard Captain Aveline had her head bowed.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and then she looked to him. “Try to contain this incident next time?”

“We will try something else,” he assured her, and then he sighed, beckoning for some of his soldiers to attend the bodies. Above him, Andraste was watching, and he peered up towards her with harrowed eyes.

“Yet shall the Maker be my guide…” he murmured, and when she said nothing, when he saw no signs, he returned to the filthy business of collecting the dead.

***

Merrill climbed the paths from the camp, ignoring the jeers of Fenarel as she passed. Ever since she had brought the shattered pieces of the mirror from the ruins and won herself the animosity of the clan, he had given her dark looks and angry snarls, like she would curse him. He had been there when they had gone to search, had seen the darkspawn just as she had. He had been there when Mahariel and Tamlen had been lost to them. He had watched as Mahariel had sickened and then wasted away into death.

But Tamlen was not lost. The mirror was a door. The mirror was a key. And if she could just find a way to unlock it…she could save him. She knew she could.

She had to.

And such priceless pieces of their history could not simply be lost.

She glanced up towards the Keeper’s aravel where Marethari yet slept, then grimaced and gave it a wide berth. It had been three days since their last fight, three days of not speaking, of not listening. But she would not bend. If she was not welcome there, she would go, she would find a place she was welcome. 

The Sabrae Clan was meant to be hers, but she had not been born into it. She had always been a little apart, the way most Keepers were. But now…now was different.

She thought of the dark presence upon the mountain, hovering, caged, behind the tattered remnants of the Veil, and gritted her teeth.

Why could no one see she was doing what she had to? Why did everyone believe she was going to get them all killed. She was a Keeper, a protector, one who gathered the lost knowledge. She was not a child.

The path sloped sharply upwards into the rocky slopes of the hills where her people had long ago met the Tevinter Imperium for the right to hold their sacred spaces. The blood had soaked into the earth, left its mark. Above, on the mountainside, the ancient crypts of the old elves lay, no longer silent, now disturbed by demons. 

She used her staff for leverage like a walking stick and began her way up the slope for a bit of privacy from all the rest.

When she was sure she had the distance and the trail to herself, she reached within her pocket to draw forth the shard from the mirror she had brought with her. It glittered cruelly in the sunlight, shining a dull silvery blue against the cloudy skies of the Wounded Coast. High above, the veiled sunlight struggled to come through, casting deep, murky shadows across the hillside. The shard was long, jagged, one of many she had tried and failed to piece together over the course of their journey. If she could just purge one piece of the taint.

It was the taint, the Blight, or at least that was what the Grey Warden had told them. Duncan, his name had been, the dark-skinned man with the bushy beard that had emerged from the undergrowth with Mahariel slung over his shoulder. Mahariel had spoken of a mirror, of strange elven ruins under the earth when he had finally awoken. For a time, they had thought he might survive. 

He had led them to the ruins himself, insisted on going.

Three days later he was dead, and Mythal’enaste it had been no clean thing. Days of dying, days of screams. She shuddered to think on it, focusing instead on the shard in her hands. 

For such a priceless treasure to be so corrupted? No. She _had_ to save it.

She had at her command the power she needed to drive the taint from the mirror. Marethari’s books had shown her the same spells she had worked on Mahariel at first, to buy him more time at life. That the mirror’s shards still were contaminated was not in question. What was in question was whether the spells that had been applied on living flesh would prove as effective on the shards of the mirror. She could only pray they would.

Audacity had told her to look. Audacity had taught her how to master the power lying dormant in her own blood. She could do it, she knew. She just needed time. 

In the back of her mind, a familiar warning whispered of the danger of dealing with spirits like Audacity. She pushed it away.

_I know._

There was a shout from the camp entrance, and she glanced back, peering across towards where the guards were standing watch over the paths from the city in the distance. There were people who stopped from time to time, and that had proven massively important, because the last of their halla had fallen ill not long after they had lost flame-haired Maren the Halla Keeper to sickness. With no halla to pull the aravels, the clan was trapped.

Marethari said they were waiting. For what was not yet certain. But Marethari had been watching the signs, auguring the foretellings from the birds and the wind and her walks in the Fade. 

The people at the front of the camp now were not the normal sort of traders passing through and brave enough to make a deal with the Dalish. It was a simply group of three people, one of them even an elf. Merrill peered at them, curious, but before she could move closer to see, she heard the sound of Marethari emerging from her aravel. She drew back, turning away. She did not want to deal with Marethari so early in the morning.

Instead, she turned back up the path, settling down with her back to the scree hill, and considering again the shard in her hand. She reached for magic, watched it glimmer, and all her hopes shone with it.

***

“Look,” Sidonie said sharply, glaring down her nose at the elves standing in her way. “I’m not expecting tea and cakes. I just need to see someone.” She peered past them, the medallion cold against her fingers, like always. It never took on her warmth, even when she was touched by fire magic. It felt wrong. 

“There is nothing here for any human!” the elf insisted, his armor shining an odd green. She had never met the Dalish before, but she had certainly heard stories. Those stories were not all true, of course, but the ones that said the Dalish were not very friendly seemed accurate here. She grimaced and sighed.

“Marethari. I’m looking for Marethari. I won’t go in, she can come here if that’s better. Is there a Marethari?” 

“This is the one the Keeper spoke of,” the other guard said suddenly, looking confused. The other drew up short, giving his companion a short look, and then his eyes slid back to Sidonie.

“A shemlen?” he asked shortly. “I thought she’d be an elf.” Sidonie raised her eyebrows, and the second guard sighed.

“Come with me,” she said softly, “but cause trouble and you’ll meet our blades, stranger.” She drew back, watching them with guarded eyes, and Sidonie pursed her lips but followed.

There were strange constructs across the clearings, the landships with red sails and hitches for the halla that pulled them. There were no halla, though, not that she could see, and the elves looked thin and wan and drawn, and their eyes were dark with suspicion and grim resolve. They watched her as she passed, and it set her on edge to feel their gazes. 

The guard led her towards a central fire in the middle of the camp. There was a woman standing there, elderly with eyes that were narrowed in thought. At her back was a twisting knotted stave, bound in tattered thread. She wore fur-trimmed robes. 

“Keeper,” the guardswoman said, and the Keeper gave a soft nod. The guardswoman backed away then, leaving Sidonie, Carver, and Fenris with the elderly woman.

It had taken them all morning to find the Dalish, even knowing they were in the general location. In fact, they had spotted the red sails of the landships in the distance first. To finally be there was a relief, but she was nervous to be watched, and was not really sure what to do now she was here. So she looked down at her hand, at the amulet in her fingers, and the carefully held it up for Marethari.

“Andaran Atish’an, travelers. I am Keeper Marethari.” 

“I was told to bring you this amulet,” she said softly. Marethari blinked, then glanced at the amulet a moment before reaching out for it.

Maker, it was strange, relinquishing it after holding it so long. She felt like a weight were lifted, and her hand hovered a moment before she lowered it with effort. So strange, letting it go, the coin that had bought her life and that of her family. A talisman, it seemed. So long as that promise existed, so long as the medallion was in her hands, they were safe, protected.

But as long as the medallion was in her hands, the Blight would never truly be over, not even if Eideann Cousland _had_ killed her dragon.

Marethari turned it over in wrinkled fingers, brow lowered, and then at last looked up, pursing her lips.

“Let me look at you,” she said softly, leaning in a little. Sidonie stood, uncomfortable, under her gaze, until at last Marethari gave the slightest of smiles. “There is a light in your heart, human. Don’t let it go out. You will need it.” She turned then, beckoning for Sidonie to follow her, taking a meandering path towards the landships and the mountain paths. “Tell me,” she said as Sidonie followed, “how this burden” – she held up the medallion – “fell to you, child.” Sidonie sighed, glancing back to Carver who just shook his head, and then tilted her head.

“A dragon fell from the sky, charred some darkspawn, and asked me to bring you this amulet,” she replied. “No big deal.” Marethari gave a small smile to herself, then shook her head.

“You are blessed by luck then,” she said softly. “I will pray that Mythal watches over your path.” Hawke let the promise slide off. She had no idea what sort of god Mythal was meant to be. The Maker had yet to watch over her, and she doubted the elven gods were particularly active either since the Dalish were in small clans exiled from their second homeland by the Chantry and their gods never raised a finger either. What was it with gods and not being bothered enough to exist? 

Marethari held out the medallion, and placed it gently back in Hawke’s hand.

“The amulet,” she told her simply, “must be taken to an altar at the top of the mountain and given a Dalish rite for the departed. Then return the amulet to me. Do this and your debt will be repaid.”

“Are you going to teach us this rite?” Carver asked abruptly at her shoulder. Marethari glanced back to him, pausing at the foot of the path up the mountain. 

“I will send my First with you. She will see to it the ritual is done.” There was a quiet pause, and then Marethari looked back to Sidonie with worried eyes. “And when it is complete,” she added hesitantly, “I must ask that you take her with you when you go.” Sidonie drew up short.

She was on the run. She could hardly fend for another person with what limited supplies they had, and it was a strange request. The Dalish hardly ever left their clans, that she had heard.

“That seems a little…odd,” she said sharply. Marethari sighed. 

“It is her wish,” she said softly, “and I must grant it.” Sidonie grimaced, looking again to Carver. He gave a world-weary look, then glanced away. Marethari took that as acquiescence.

“You will find Merrill on the trail just up the mountain.” She motioned with her arm, directing them up, and Sidonie glanced between her and the path, and then nodded. “Dareth shiral,” she heard Marethari say quietly. Sidonie just sighed, and began her way up the trail, Carver and Fenris in tow. 

Fenris was very quiet, and Sidonie still felt a little odd having him along at all given he had already expressed his concerns about mages, and she still did not really know what to make of him. Waking up on his floor with him across the floor in some equal state of confusion and soreness after their mending of the Veil had been…awkward. They had not spoken of it, simply let it be. 

She resisted the urge to glance back, pushed the thoughts of the dizziness from his lyrium markings when they were alight from her mind, and took the first turn up the path.

And there, seating on the scree stones of the path, was an elf, presumably Merrill, bent over something that seemed to glitter in the light. Sidonie felt something stir, a weird flicker of magic, but something she had never seen or felt before. 

Merrill sensed her, because she suddenly rose, tucking away whatever she had been holding and turning about abruptly. She had big bright green eyes, the Dalish markings lacing across her face, and short black hair held back in a multitude of pieces. She looked between them all, a little surprised, and then her face split into a smile. 

“Oh, hello!” she said merrily. “You must be the one the Keeper has been waiting for.” She fixed her gaze on Sidonie then. “Aneth ara. I’m Merrill.” She paused a moment, and then her smile slipped into a look of horror and despair. “Oh I’m _so_ sorry,” she said hurriedly, like she had caused some offense. “I didn’t ask _your_ name! Unless…it’s not rude to ask a human their name, is it?” Sidonie blinked, taken aback and then caught herself staring. 

“I…no,” she said softly, shaking her head. Merrill looked relieved.

“You’ll have to work harder than that to offend us,” Carver added with a little cheer Sidonie picked up on instantly. She raised an eyebrow at him and saw him flush slightly pink at her notice. He gave Sidonie a glare, then turned back to Merrill. “I’m Carver Hawke. This is Fenris, and my sister, Sidonie.” Merrill smiled, nodding. 

“I’m afraid I’m not very experienced with your kind,” she said brightly. “You…sound Fereldan. I spent most of my life there. We only came north a few years ago.” She looked like she were struggling for any topic she might have to speak. “Have you…been in the Free Marches long? Do you like it here?” A little amused at her nervousness, Sidonie just gave a quiet smile.

“Oh, I miss the cold,” she said with a smirk, “and the dirt. Kirkwall’s not brown enough for me. But hey, no darkspawn.” Yet. Merrill gave her a puzzled look.

“Ferelden wasn’t that brown,” she said. “The dirt and muck gave it character.” Sidonie smiled and then glanced up the path, slipping the medallion into her pocket. Merrill noticed, and so Sidonie sighed. “What do we have to do with this exactly?”

“It’s…a funeral of sorts,” Merrill admitted quietly. “I’ll perform it when we get to the mountaintop. Getting there is the tricky part. Our hunters haven’t been able to reach the summit. Dark things are about.” Sidonie glanced up the mountain, grimacing. Another long hike, and Sundermount was no small beast, but a tall mountain. And then throw ‘dark things’ into that mix? Maker’s blood. 

“We should go,” Merrill said, her merry demeanor fading. “Your task is for Asha’Bellanaar. It’s not wise to make her wait.” 

“Do you know the Witch who sent us here?” Sidonie asked, surprised. The witch had been a human, after being a dragon, and…well it was strange to think the Dalish knew her by name. 

“No, not personally,” Merrill said, starting up the path. “My people tell stories of her though.” She paused, looking back. “You’re very lucky. Most people who meet Asha’Bellanaar end up in little pieces hanging from the trees.”

“Pleasant,” Fenris muttered, echoing Sidonie’s own thoughts. 

“Let’s get this over with,” Sidonie murmured, pondering the Witch and the strange request. What sort of person wanted to give a metal coin a funeral in exchange for lives? What magic was she messing with now?

Whatever it was, she still had the sense of forboding. The air felt thin with a Veil too tattered to be useful. Stories of dark things could only be demons. And somewhere, high above, an altar for the dead lay, waiting for a coin that still felt heavy, and so cold.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie ends up dealing with more complications than planned; a familiar face and a promise kept become something more ominous than freeing; Nate starts to make sense of some of Amgarrak's puzzles, only to find he does NOT like the answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: gore (a lot - Amgarrak is not pretty guys), violence
> 
> Comments always welcome and appreciated! <3 I love hearing from readers.
> 
> (NOTE: I am currently in school, working full time, and going through personal life issues. Dances is still in progress, and I have the next chapter half-finished. I make updates on progress at my tumblr: higheverrains.tumblr.com, so feel free to follow there for news and the like. Thanks for bearing with me, lovely readers, I promise you'll have the next chapter soon. <3 ~HR, April 18, 2016)

When she had been young and fairly new to her magic, and they had just settled in Lothering, Sidonie had run away. She had packed a bag with simple things – a wedge of cheese, an empty bottle, and a snail shell she had carried from Wycombe, all the things important to a young girl at such a time – and carried it up to the Imperial Highway where it wound towards the hills of the Hinterlands. She had walked under the bone-white structures, shimmering in the Ferelden sun, for almost an hour before the feelings of loss and wandering had caught up to her, and she had forgotten whatever had driven her to run in the first place. For the first time, Sidonie had felt the thrill of fear.

She was not lost, not really. Even then she knew the road she followed would take her back if she but turned around. But she had looked upon the horizon, the far distance, and the wilderness around, and for the first time felt incredibly unimportant. 

She had slipped down from the raised road, crossed into the fields and the hills of the Hinterlands, pulled by the compelling need to feel so free from everything. When time ceased to matter, the entire world could stand still, and things like studying a single blade of grass, or listening to the whispers on the wind became simple and serene. 

There was something stirring in the air, old magic in the Hinterland hills, as always, that drew the spirits to her. She recognized that same feeling now, so far from the Hinterlands and Lothering, that tinge in magic she had come to associate with the weakened Veil. She had not realized it then, of course, that was what she had felt. She had simply basked in the magic of it, the feeling of it tingling her skin, touching the back of her mind like a presence always waiting to say hello whenever she might wish to talk. The Hinterlands were full of dark histories that could weaken the Veil after all.

It had been Malcolm who had found her, playing on the fields, who had sat with her in the grass, his eyes quiet and sad, and told her that once it had been a battlefield, not too long ago.  
‘A heart is a powerful thing, and loss even more so,’ he had told her. Where the flowers swayed softly in the wind, King Vanedrin Theirin had fallen, along with many others, when Orlais had occupied Ferelden for the second time. So many hearts broken, so many people lost. She had started to understand then, the way it felt tense and ready, prepared at any moment to whisper secrets long forgotten by time. In places where time felt a memory, the weight of history was real. 

Here, it felt heavy, thick with old sins. She took the path cautiously, expecting none of the quiet breezes or pretty flowers she had seen on the fields so very long ago. The Veil torn here was of an older battle, many perhaps, and devastating. The spirits pressing against it could fall through the gaps if they got too close, and she could feel their curiosity far darker than she had realized as a girl.

Merrill walked ahead under the weight of it all. There was something heavy to her too, despite the light, thin frame. She walked, barefoot, across the earth like every footstep might shatter nations and so she need take care. The spirits about her were silent watchers, not the riotous mess that were often in Sidonie’s wake. They hovered like dark shadows, waiting to whisper their secrets across the Veil. And every so often, they stirred.

One did ahead, so swiftly Sidonie almost lost track of it, before she felt it breach the Veil and shudder into form in their own world. Ahead, the scattered ground broke, an arm, sheer bone, thrusting through the mountain scree and hauling itself from a shallow grave to peer through wary dead eyes.

Sidonie ended it with fire. The next fell to stone. The stone was not hers, but Merrill’s. The woman stood, her smiles and her nervousness all gone, staff in hand, watching the path ahead.

“That seems it for the time being,” she said softly. Sidonie nodded.

“The Keeper didn’t mention you were a mage,” Carver said warily. Fenris sniffed.

“I imagine it’s difficult to give away something nobody wants,” he said darkly. Sidonie shot him a glare and he met it. Merrill simply let it slide off her like rain.

“All Keepers know a bit of old magic,” she said calmly. “The stories tell us that all elvhen once had the gift, but like so many things, it was lost.” Sidonie grimaced, drawing alongside the elven woman as they continued up the mountainside path. “It’s a Keeper’s job to remember, to restore what we can.”

“Does the Chantry know about the Dalish mages?” Sidonie asked softly. An apostate herself, she was more than aware there were places that mages could hide, but if every Dalish Keeper knew magic, was a mage…

“Oh they know,” Merrill assured her. “It’s one of the reasons we never camp too long in one place.” Her eyes, a deep gentle green like the grass in the fields outside Lothering, went hard. “They usually don’t pursue us if we stay away from the cities and towns and keep moving. But my clan is now in more danger, having lost our halla.” So she had not just been missing them earlier. They truly had no way to move. Sidonie grimaced.

“If you go to Kirkwall,” she said softly, “you’ll be an apostate in a city full of Templars.” Merrill gave her a knowing look.

“As are you,” she said wryly. Sidonie conceded the point. “If I don’t go to Kirkwall, I’ll be alone. A solitary elf is easy prey for anyone.” 

“Alone?” Carver asked. “Why not stay with your clan?” Merrill just bowed her head and gave no answer.

There was a noise from up higher on the path, and Sidonie twisted fingers tighter about her staff in her fingerless gloves. It was no demon, however, only another elf, which stood atop a small bluff overlooking the camp, the boundary of the Dalish holdings, a lookout.

And the look he gave Merrill was full of contempt.

“So the Keeper finally found someone to take you from here,” he said roughly. Sidonie blinked, and Carver drew up alongside her, grimacing. Merrill stood her ground.

“Yes,” she replied as curtly, and Sidonie eyed them up nervously. Such a cold reception…Marethari had said nothing of this. Why did Merrill need to leave anyway – it certainly seemed more like need and less like choosing, regardless of what Marethari said. “I have made my choice,” Merrill said simply, “and I will save our clan whatever you think.” The lookout simply turned his back, looking away, so Merrill pursed her lips and then pushed beyond him, further up the path. Sidonie glanced to the lookout once more, then hurried to catch up.

For a moment it was Merrill storming on ahead up the path, climbing higher and higher because she had spent her life traveling with the Dalish and had the stamina for it. Sidonie cursed the city life when her breath started to come in short puffs, but even then she hurried on against the burning in her muscles as they climbed. 

And then finally Merrill sighed, looking back, realizing they were lagging, and she paused. As Sidonie drew close again, she gave her an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “You’re not really seeing the Dalish at their best.” Sidonie quirked an eyebrow, leaning over a little to catch her breath as Carver, massively heavy greatsword at his back, and Fenris in a similar state, caught up. Merrill sighed. “We’re good people that look out for each other,” she insisted. “Just…not today apparently.” Sidonie forced herself up, blowing out a heavy breath to clear her black hair from her eyes. 

“But the Dalish are _delightful_ ,” she murmured. “I was just thinking of inviting the _whole_ clan over for tea.” 

“Sister.” Carver’s voice was sharp and hard. Sidonie sighed. Merrill shook her head.

“I’m sure they’d never accept an invitation – oh. Right. Sarcasm.” Sidonie raised an eyebrow and Merrill grimaced, looking towards the edge of the path where it disappeared into a cave system. “Let’s go. Asha’Bellanaar isn’t known for her patience.” Considering they had spent the past year holding on to that coin, Sidonie was fairly sure a few more moment’s pause would be fine. Merrill, however, simply forged on, plunging into the darkness of the cave and summoning up fire to light the way.

“Maker’s breath, are we in that much a rush?” Carver said darkly. Fenris just gave him a flat stare.

“Why is it always caves with you?” he said. Sidonie smirked.

“If you’re going to die, it’s best to do it underground.” 

“Is it?” he said in a disagreeably flat tone. She thought of the Deep Roads, the expedition they still wanted to go on, and grimaced, her smirk fading.

“No. No it isn’t.” 

The caverns were filled with the usual fare of cast away places: giant spiders, a deepstalker carcass, and lots and lots of rocks. Merrill navigated the tunnels with the ease of someone who had regularly ascended the paths, so Sidonie decided whatever was keeping the elves from the summit was further up the mountain. An elf should be able to manage a spider, after all. They were common in the wilds, as were the Dalish. 

She paused at that thought and then pushed it away. Neither were all that common, on second thought.

When at last she saw sunlight, she gave a sigh of relief. The path flattened out a little, and she pushed through into the daylight to find herself standing atop a ridge overlooking the Vimmark Mountains, wreathed in scattered dark clouds from the coast. She eyed them dubiously, hoping the weather held, and then looked about, catching sight of Merrill standing before a strange barrier. Damn. She was no good with barriers.

She grimaced and crossed to join them, Fenris and Carver at her back.

“That way then?” she asked curtly. Merrill gave a nod. Sidonie considered the barrier a moment, her lips twisting in a grimace. “This is…strange magic,” she finally admitted. “I don’t know how to start bringing it down without time, and the Veil here is so damaged – ”

“I can open the way forward,” Merrill interrupted. Sidonie blinked, then nodded, putting out a hand toward the barrier.

“All yours then,” she said, stepping back.

She had been expecting magic to flood the air, to come cascading like a rush through the elf, as it had when she had made her stones to scatter the bones of the fallen. Instead Merrill reached for her belt, and gave a sharp cry, before Sidonie could stop her, slicing a thin gouge across her palm.

The power of it shuddered over her, and Sidonie stepped back, face contorting, as a rush of spirits flooded in. The blood from Merrill’s hand dripped down her fingers, then rose, defying gravity, rising through the air. 

And then it shot forward, tearing into the barrier, and Sidonie felt a shudder as something reached across the Veil. For a moment, nothing, and then the barrier flickered and died. Merrill curled her injured hand into a fist, and wiped the knife clean on her tunic before slipping it back into its small sheath at her belt. And then she finally looked back. 

Sidonie reached for magic. She had to. She wrapped it hard about the Veil, force and ferocity as one, and poured her magic into mending the damage Merrill’s spell had done. Merrill watched her calmly, eyes deep and still, until Sidonie let the magic slip away, and grimaced.

She did not need to speak. Fenris did it for her.

“Blood magic?” he said incredulously. “Foolish. Very foolish.” Sidonie glanced nervously to him, but he did not move. His eyebrows were lowered, and his stare was cold and fierce.

“Yes, it was blood magic,” Merrill said simply, “but I know what I’m doing. The spirit helped us, didn’t it?” Her eyes slipped to Sidonie, who gave her a dark look.

“Sure, demons are very helpful,” she said archly, glaring the elven mage down, “right up until they take your mind and turn you into a monster.” 

“Well…yes…” Merrill said darkly, “but that won’t happen. I know how to defend myself.” Sidonie just stared.

She had no idea how it worked in the Circles. She had been trained by Malcolm, who had learned there, but most of her experience came from actually walking that fine line, Bethany at her side, their father as a guide. She had seen demons, felt them, feared them. She knew they were there, waiting, and that a deal with a demon did not end well. This…First, this Keeper’s apprentice, seemed so cocksure, so determined. How could she possibly _know_ nothing would happen. Knowing how to defend one’s self from demons did not make one immune to possession. Sidonie scowled. Merrill simply sighed.

“Anyway, be careful up ahead,” she said, her voice softer. “Restless things prowl the heights.” She turned her back and stepped through where the barrier had been, once again back on the climbing path. It was not long before they reached strange formations of stacked rocks, and the Veil itself seemed electric with the energy that danced between them. “In the days of Arlathan,” Merrill explained as they crossed between the strange monuments, “the elders came here to sleep. Uthenera, the endless dream, they called it. But they don’t sleep peacefully anymore.” Nor would they, with Merrill summoning demons amidst their tombs. Sidonie grimaced.

Why was it that everyone she met was out to cause more trouble for her? Was it not enough she was just trying to keep her head down? 

She sighed and followed, hanging back a little more with Carver and Fenris now, as Merrill led them through the ancient graveyard. Despite Merrill’s warnings, nothing stirred, and for that, Sidonie was grateful.

At the far end was the altar Marethari had told them about. It was a slab of grey stone, imposing and cold, backed up against the cliff face jutting out over the Dalish camp. Atop it, a bundle of incense, long since dried, stood in an earthware pot painted with long-worn symbols, and flickering there was a green flame that made Sidonie very cautious. Fire that needed no feeding? No one else had been through the barrier after all. And fire that glowed green. She felt the warning tingle of magic and was wary. Merrill, however, approached it with a silent reverence, her eyes cool and calm. 

“Place the amulet on the altar,” she instructed, looking back. Sidonie fished it from her pocket, considering it quietly, and then took the steps forward with a hesitation. It still felt cold in her hand, and so close to the altar, it seemed to almost hum with anticipation. She shuddered, setting it down quickly, feeling the weight of it vanish from her even as she stepped rapidly back. And then Merrill came forward, her voice the gentle Dalish, as she spoke the words of the ancient elven rite.

“ _Hahren na melana sahlin. Emma ir abelas. Souver'inan isala hamin vhenan him dor'felas. In uthenera na revas_.” The amulet shuddered atop the stone slab as Merrill opened her eyes. And then it began to glow, so brightly it hurt her eyes. Sidonie put up a hand to shield them, feeling the sensation of magic filling the air once more.

And then there was a great flash, and she blinked back the spots in her vision, to see a woman crouched atop the altar, watching them with all-seeing yellow eyes.

She rose, stepping down from the altar, clad in the same red armor and feathers as she had been the last time they had seen her. Her white hair, in dragon horns, twisted back behind her head. She gave Sidonie a knowing smile.

“And here we are,” she said in a voice that Sidonie recognized from a year hence as though it were only yesterday.

“A witch!” Fenris spat. Sidonie swallowed. Merrill glanced back.

“It’s alright,” she said softly. “She means us no harm.” And then she cast her green eyes back on the witch, giving a low bow. “Andaran atishan, Asha’Bellanaar.” The witch just surveyed her with quiet interest.

“One of the People,” she said gently. “I see. So young and bright.” Her voice hardened. “Do you know who I am, beyond that title?” Merrill never looked up. She simply shook her head, and all the nervousness from before was back. The Witch smiled slightly, beckoning with her hand. “Then stand!” she said simply. “The People bend their knee too quickly.” Merrill did as she was bade, rising, and the Witch turned her attentions instead to Sidonie, her yellow gaze shining with amusement.

“So refreshing,” the woman said, “to see someone who keeps their end of a bargain. I half expected my amulet to end up in a merchant’s pocket.” Sidonie wet her lips, wary and guarded.

“No one wanted to buy it,” she said softly, and that was the absolute truth, because she had tried. Her eyes narrowed. “Maybe because it had a witch inside?”

“Just a piece,” the Witch of the Wilds said in an amused tone. “A small piece, but it was all I needed. A bit of security should the inevitable occur. And if I know my Morrigan, it already has.”

“Is that someone we’re meant to know?” Sidonie asked sharply. 

“She is a girl who thinks she knows what is what better than I or anyone,” the witch laughed. “And why not? I raised her to be as she is. I cannot expect her to be less.” Sidonie narrowed her gaze.

“I’m not sure whether she’s your daughter or your enemy.” The witch quirked another little smile, her voice quiet now.

“Neither is she.” 

“You are no simple witch,” Fenris said darkly, stepping up beside Sidonie who glanced to him nervously. The last thing she needed was him starting a fight. The woman before her could be a dragon if it suited her, and one of those per week was more than enough.

“Figured that out yourself, did you?” the woman replied. Fenris shook his head.

“I have seen powerful mages, spirits, and abominations,” he said darkly, “but you are none of those things. What are you?”

“Fenris…” Sidonie hissed, but he ignored her.

“Such a curious lad,” the Witch of the Wilds mused, crossing her arms and studying him quietly. “The chains are broken, but are you truly free?” It silenced Fenris, who simply stared back a moment before lowering his chin slightly, as a defeated hound might.

“You see a great deal,” he said softly. For his admittance, she graced them with a smile.

“I am a fly in the ointment,” she said simply. “I am a whisper in the shadows. I am also an old, old woman. More than that, you need not know.” Sidonie considered her, feeling the chill of history again, and drew a deep breath to calm her nerves. The woman set her teeth on edge.

“If you’re so powerful, why did you need me to bring you here.”

“Because I had an appointment to keep,” she explained amiably enough, much to Sidonie’s dismay, because her answer made little sense. The woman laughed at her look of confusion and instead crossed her arms again. “Must I be in only one place? Bodies are such limiting things.” Fenris bristled again. Sidonie shook her head.

“You should have told me what I was doing,” she said darkly. The woman simply arched her eyebrows. 

“Did I trick you?” she said in a dangerous voice. “I asked you to bring the amulet, and you did. If I thought it such and easy task, I might have asked anyone. But you have succeeded where others would not.” And that made Sidonie’s blood run cold. She had never thought of it as a fated task, simply a promise made, a burden on her conscience. Could it _not_ have been anyone else? She had thought it simply a matter of chance, nothing more, that the witch had appeared as she had to them, with so many others fleeing the Blight. Now, to hear it was a deliberate choice…she did not like the insinuations.

“You have plans, I take it,” Carver said darkly, joining Sidonie and putting himself a little between them, as if he could protect her should it come to that. The woman gave him an amused look. 

“Destiny awaits us both, dear boy.” Her eyes slipped back to Sidonie, calculating and ancient. “We have much to do.” _We? Who is we? What were they to do?_ Sidonie thought in annoyance and a pinch of fear.

“Before I go,” the woman said at last, “a word of advice: we stand upon the precipice of change, and the world fears the inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for that moment, and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly.” Sidonie felt the chill cut through to her soul again, the dark words of forewarning from a creature that was so old time itself had forgotten her, time which had barely touched her, and so dangerous and powerful she was like nothing any of them had ever seen before. 

She deflected, as best she could, trying to find her feet again.

“Cheap advice from a dragon,” she said. The woman just gave a smile.

“We all have our challenges,” she admitted, then gave a bow of head.

“Are we going to regret bringing her here?” Carver said softly at her side. Sidonie glanced to him, and the woman replied in a very quiet voice far different from the ones before.

“Regret is something I know well. Take care not to cling to it, to hold it so close that it poisons your soul. When the time comes for your regrets, remember me.” She glanced then to Merrill, her voice returning to its usual timbre. “As for you, child, step carefully. No path is darker than when your eyes are shut.” Merrill murmured a thanks for the words in Dalish, and the woman stepped back towards the altar. 

“Now the time has come for me to leave,” she said. “You have my thanks, and my sympathy.” And that did not make Sidonie feel any better about the trip.

There was a blinding flash of light, and the woman before them grew, her shape twisting, forming, changing, until a dragon rose high above them. And then she took to the air, great wings beating, and Sidonie and her company were knocked back by the force of it as the witch-dragon rose. Sidonie forced herself up, taking a step or two forwards as the dragon plummeted down through the sky before soaring back up into the air and coasting away across the Vimmarks. And then she gritted her teeth.

“Maker’s blood,” Carver spat, adjusting his tunic and giving her a dark look. “I know we owed her for our lives, but what that will cost in the end, I don’t even _want_ to think about.” Sidonie nodded.

“This place is known, even in Tevinter,” Fenris said quietly. “We should not have come.” 

“Is it?” Merrill asked. “I don’t know how Sundermount got its name. It isn’t elvhen.”

“Something was sundered, obviously,” Sidonie said. “And its time to leave before more spirits come through. That magical mess will have only drawn them near.” She pulled away from the altar, glancing back at the rock formations with concerned eyes. She had been trying to avoid all this magical attention. This was meant to be a simple task, deliver an amulet, pay that debt. Instead, she had unleashed something frightening and powerful on the world with no clear understanding of what it was. Worse, she was now in the company of a blood mage, which she was expected to escort back to Kirkwall, despite the fact the Templars would be looking for her already, thanks to Anders. 

She wanted to bury her head in her hands, to find a way to move forward. Instead, she simply looked to Carver, and he seemed as world-weary as she.

“Well, at least it’s done, for better or worse,” he said, trying to sound encouraging. It felt half-hearted, there among the magic, the tattered Veil, and the graves, in a place haunted by history. 

Not for the first time, Sidonie thought of Malcolm, of what he might do if it had been him.

 _A heart is a powerful thing._ She would follow hers. If it led her astray, at least something would yet be true. 

She crossed between the tombs in silence, Carver at her side.

“One more night,” she told him softly, “and then we will go home.”

“Where is home?” he asked in return. And that was the real question.

***

The first time they saw the creature, Nathaniel could hardly believe it was real. It was a twisted abomination of life, a fleshy node on scuttling feet with a face that grinned like madness. It shrieked, a sound like giant spiders in the hills of the coastlands, and Nathaniel’s blood froze to ice in his veins. 

For a long time afterward, none of them moved. They stood now in what might be its nest, or part of one, peering at the fleshy bodies of the missing expedition. They were gathered in a pile of torn limbs and flesh and blood. Nathaniel felt sick. It was the Mother all over again. It was puddles of darkspawn filth and the memories of the stench of rotting flesh. 

This was a rescue mission. He was meant to come down here and discover what had happened to the expedition. He had been expecting darkspawn – what else in the Deep Roads could it be to obliterate an entire expedition. Instead he had found Amgarrak, a Thaig full of strange very un-dwarven magics, Veil Tears, spirits possessing corpses, and now this strange creature. He had witnessed people and creatures only half real, cast in the shades of the strange blue tint that sometimes washed over them all. He had been attacked by golems standing watch for intruders for centuries. 

And he had found the expedition. They stood there before him now, torn limb from limb by whatever monstrous creature inhabited the Thaig. Yes, there was a reason Amgarrak had been lost. It was not safe. It was a magical danger zone. And they were only now beginning to understand what that might mean.

Sigrun with the golem at her side from the caverns out in the outskirts of the Thaig was watching him grimly.

“What do we do?” she asked softly. Nathaniel had no idea. He had no mages to walk him through the strangeness of the magical energies pooling and coalescing across the thaig’s still air. He had no expertise in what the creature they now faced might be – it was no darkspawn. It carried none of the feeling of the taint. It was something else entirely, that had destroyed the expedition members, and that meant it might not be alone either. 

The Deep Roads were full of horrible things. He grimaced and drew back his arrow a little, ready in case it reappeared. And then he began his descent into the depths of the thaig.

“Where are you going?!” Sigrun hissed. “Didn’t you see that thing?! We found the expedition.”

“My brother is still trapped here,” Jerrik said angrily. “We have to save him. I’m not leaving without him.” 

“Your brother is as good as dead,” Sigrun replied angrily. Nathaniel just shook his head, silencing them both with a glare. Now he was all business. There was no more time for reservation. He felt the cold chill of fear settle over him as it had at Kal’Hirol.

“That thing murdered an entire expedition, and Amgarrak is full of uncontrolled magic. The expedition came here to find the secrets of the golems, but there is something else at work here.”

“Is it magic then?” Jerrik asked. “That creature – is it magic?” Well? Was it? Nathaniel had seen a shade once in his entire life under the cellars of Vigil’s Keep where he had watched Velanna seal a dangerous shade into a tree. It had been nothing like that creature, but what did he know of magical beings? He simply gritted his teeth. 

“I don’t know, but there’s enough going on here we can’t stop, and regardless, we can’t go back, the door is shut. Unless we can find a different way out, we’re trapped just like they were.” He glanced to the expedition members’ remains with distaste. Jerrik shook his head.

“Ancestors, we can’t even return them to the Stone like that,” he said, and his face was pale with fear and shock. “What will we do.”

“Survive,”Nathaniel replied. He was not going to die in Amgarrak Thaig and be eaten by whatever in the Void that damn thing was. 

He ran through the checklist in his head: find the expedition, save Brogan, find a way out. Then he crept across the stones towards the final chambers. 

The room they entered seemed to hum, a sound that ached in his very bones. A great well full of lyrium shone above them, casting the room into blue shadows. Nathaniel could not hear the creature, nor could he see it waiting in the wings. Instead he saw a stone table at the foot of the well, with tattered paperwork scattered across it, still in one piece so clearly some of it was from the expedition. He lowered his bow, nodding to Sigrun to keep watch, and crossed to the table, pushing the thoughts of the lyrium from his mind. It made his head hurt.

He took up the first book, carefully wiping the cover of dust and a few droplets of blood.

“The switches divert the lyrium streams,” he read quietly, “causing unpredictable effects. They can alter the very environment. It must be magic, but our understanding of such things is limited.”

“What is that?” Jerrik demanded, peering around his arm to snatch the thin book away. “Shaper Darion’s research notes! This could be what we need to help Brogan!” He looked up. “These switches, what does he mean?” Nathaniel considered the lyrium well, glowing bright and blue, and grimaced as his eyes fell on the first of the switches, a tall pedestal around one side of the well. He kept a wide berth, considering the table again.

“There’s more than just his journal,” he said, carefully collecting some of the other pages. “These are old, much older.” He could not read the script. Jerrik took them as well, rifling through them carelessly until Nathaniel thought they might scatter to the winds.

“Research notes!” he declared. “These are the records from the original endeavor!” Sigrun was there in an instant, tearing them from his hands and nearly damaging the paper. She drew back, face severe.

“I will read them,” she said.

“They could stop the darkspawn!” Jerrik spat. “What we learn here could help us make an army! We could reclaim the roads!”

“We are already reclaiming the roads!” Sigrun replied. “We are doing so without sacrificing our brothers and sisters!” Jerrik glowered.

“What would you know of it? You’ve already had your funeral, brand. Orzammar teeters on the brink, closed in. We have no more choices. We will die if we do not make the sacrifices we must.”

“Go topside,” Sigrun said. Jerrik looked at her like she had lost her mind. “Go up. If the darkspawn take Orzammar, leave Orzammar, or will you die for pride?”

“Pride is all we have, brand. I don’t expect you to understand,” Jerrik spat. “There would be people willing to volunteer, people who would willingly make the choice to defend Orzammar. There are people there worth saving.” 

“Look around you,” Sigrun said. “What do you see worth saving? The world above has driven back the Blight five times already, while we have battled a losing war. If we give up our humanity too, what will be left to fight for?”

“Honor. Glory. The chance to do our ancestors proud.” 

“Die then, in your glory and your honor, screaming on darkspawn blades. There’s a bigger world to save, and we don’t need to condemn our brothers and sisters to death to see it done.” Jerrik scowled, opened his mouth to speak, and Nathaniel cut in again, getting tired of the arguments.

“Sigrun, what does it say?”

“Very little remains of Caridin’s writings. The memories say the Paragon destroyed much of his own research. What madness would drive him do such a thing? King Valtor persevered what he could; thanks to him we have something to work from. Nereda,my mage colleague, believes that lyrium is the key.” She looked up, her expression dark, piercing blue eyes like shards of ice. “Don’t tell me they succeeded…”

“No,” Nathaniel said darkly, eyeing up the switches. “I think it’s safe to say something went terribly wrong.” He glanced back. “You met Shayle, traveled with the Commander and the golem for some time. Are you aware of how they are made?” 

“The Commander would not say, if she even knew, just that the process was horrible. They discovered the Anvil of the Void, and when they returned from the darkspawn’s dens, they bore a crown forged by Caridin himself. Whatever happened…if the Commander would not countenance it...” Eideann could be ruthless. She did not wait for the world to twist about her. She commanded it, forced it to her bidding. If a sacrifice was to be made, she made it. It was a duty. For her to avoid this one…he grimaced, his eyes sliding to the well. 

“Lyrium probably is the key,” he said softly, “but that does not mean they managed to make golems again.” Jerrik was pondering it quietly. 

“The journal,” he finally said, “speaks of altering the environment. Did Brogan touch the switches?” 

“If we touch that,” Nathaniel said sharply, “we have no idea if we will make it back, or what is waiting on the other side.” Sigrun shook her head.

“We don’t have a choice. This is a dead end. We have to get through.” She grimaced. “The other chambers back near the entrance were blocked with barriers. Perhaps you have to use the switches to get through?” Nathaniel hated the plan. He hated it so much it hurt. He turned away, restless, pacing across the flagstones a moment before finally eyeing up the well.

“Alright,” he said decisively, because it was what they had to do. He thought of Eideann Cousland, of what she might have done, and was reaffirmed she would have chosen to go forward as well. On his arm, the scar that marred his flesh was still raised and jagged, the twin to her own.

 _Maker protect us,_ he thought, and then nodded to Jerrik. The dwarven noble reached for the switch.

There was a wash of blue as the lyrium well stirred, and for a moment it was too bright to even see. And then suddenly they were standing in a world all tinged with blue, and this time it was permanent, no strange wave of overflowing magic. Nathaniel took stock, feeling dizzy at the color shift in his reality. Beside him, Sigrun tucked the letters into her pack and grimaced. 

“This looks like the Fade,” she said simply. She had been in the Fade before, at the Black Marsh with Anders and Eideann, when they had found the Spirit of Justice. Nathaniel deferred to her.

“Any advice?” She snorted, looking about.

“Wake up?” she suggested, no help at all. “But there’s only one way to go.” It was back the way they had come, of course, but at least there was no pitter-patter of feet this time. That was something to be grateful for. Whatever the creature that hounded the expedition, Brogan had fled into _this_ world to escape it, and it had not followed them through. 

Sigrun led the way this time, her golem close at hand. There was no telling what lurked to guard the blue realm that stretched before them. It did not take long to find out however. 

At first he thought them statues. Just enough had changed of the strange reality that it was hard to really notice the differences, but still possible for things to feel off. His eyes were not yet used to the blue either, so when a Revenant appeared out of nowhere, twisted sword in its hand, Nathaniel almost missed it and as a result nearly lost his head as well. Sigrun shoved him clear, axes ready, and turned to the second one that rose from the flagstones like a spirit, solidifying into a horror before their eyes. 

The golem quivered, then bent, and tore a flagstone from its place on the carved floor. It hurled it, sending it crashing through the first of the Revenant Watchers. The Watcher went down, and Nathaniel hauled his shortblade from his belt, diving in to close the distance. Better to keep this fight short.

The Watcher roared, something unearthly, as he hacked through its neck, and then he hurried back, putting some distance between them, watching it in its death throes. A scream broke his attention, Jerrik and Sigrun against the second Watcher. He nocked an arrow and let it fly, taking the creature through the eye and sending it staggering back. Jerrik ended it with his own blades, standing over it, his chest heaving, Sigrun at his side.

“By the Ancestors, how many more of those things will we encounter?” he demanded.

“Hopefully not many,” Nathaniel shot back. “Come on. Your brother must be here.” The blue. Brogan had been blue. Find Brogan. Then find the way out.

There was equipment the likes of which he had not seen before as they made their way back through the corridors, now awash in blue. They saw no more Revenants, nor any of the golems from before, but the entire place felt wrong, a shift out of sync with the world, and the tingle of magic was ever present against his flesh, sending chills through him. 

And then at last they made it through, climbing the final steps to the corridor where they had first seen Brogan. At their approach, he drew up short, shifting to stare at them with startled eyes. 

“Brogan!” Jerrik called to him, and Brogan gave a nervous laugh. “I’m here,” Jerrik said, looking him over. “You’re alright.”

“Jerrik…” Brogan murmured, peering at him with hooded eyes and a face drawn with fear. “No. No, Jerrik. Can’t stay. Get out. Go!” He wrapped his arms about himself. “The light was all around! Went through me! Everyone disappeared! No. Have to hide, Jerrik. Have to hide.”

It was not what Nathaniel had been hoping for. He had wanted answers. Something. Anything. He needed to know what that creature was, what had happened. And he needed to know if there was any way out. Jerrik just grimaced, and Sigrun swallowed hard.

“Brogan, what happened?” she said forcefully. He fixed her with a flat look, his eyes continuing to dance away and back, away and back, skirting the shadows for creatures to tear him apart. 

“Died,” he breathed. “All dead! Torn apart! Harvested!” His eyes widened with fear and he looked to Jerrik then. “Stop it. Destroy everything. Please, find Darion!” Jerrik swallowed, and Nathaniel himself was uncertain what to say. 

“We’ll follow the corridor,” Sigrun announced sharply, the golem sturdy at her back. “We have no other choice. If Darion is still alive, he’ll be at the end of this light-maze.” 

“So be it,” Nathaniel said.

Jerrik reached for Brogan then, to touch his shoulder, to bring comfort, but Brogan shied back with a low whine, and shook his head vehemently. Jerrik looked to Nathaniel then, his eyes full of concern.

“Darion Olmec…if he’s alive, he can help.” He sighed, glancing back to Brogan. “Rest easy, Brogan. You did well.”

“Did well?” Nathaniel spat. “He barely said anything!” The entire place was making him angry, making him afraid. He was a dangerous man when he was afraid, unpredictable and unrestrained. Jerrik shot him a dark glare.

“I know my brother,” he insisted. “He’s a survivor. He might be a little…confused, but his sword arm is as steady as ever.” Nathaniel grimaced, then nodded.

“See he doesn’t fall behind.”

The corridor opened back up into the entranceway as before. Another research station stood under the strange glowing blue flame from the brazier that stood lit in that blue-tinted dimension. They had to be in the Fade somehow. He had no other explanation.

“More of his journal,” Jerrik said, rifling through the workstation, upsetting some of the equipment there.

“And more of the ancient notes.” It was Sigrun who read them, gathering the papers in one hand and the small notebook of Darion’s notes in the other. “I have ordered more iron from the Miner’s Guild. The shaft-rats will deny this request, citing our ‘waste’ of good iron, but I’ve prepared for this eventuality. I’ve come up with an alternative: the casteless. No one will miss them, and it is far better for them to die in the service of this great experiment than to continue living their worthless lives. Nereda seems reluctant, but she is from the surface and doesn’t understand. No matter, she wants the research to continue as much as I do and will eventually come around.” She looked sick as she turned her eyes to the journal pages in her other hand. “They used not stone or metal, but flesh. Flesh of the dying, the diseased, the Casteless. We found a putrifying construct of meat and bone. It looked awkward and headless, and the stench was unbearable.” She tossed the papers down, and Jerrik carefully reached to gather them up before she stood over him arms crossed. He looked up.

“Their sacrifice will not be forgotten,” he said simply, and she glared with hatred in her eyes. The golem beside her bristled like it would act on her command unspoken to crush Jerrik Dace in its fists. Nathaniel felt sick as well. Sigrun glared. “Every life is worth something. What they did here was wrong. Brogan is right. Destroy it all, before it is too late.” 

“NO!” Jerrik spat. “If we lost this…if we lose Amgarrak…!”

“What?! What will be lost that is not already gone?!” Sigrun demanded. Jerrik looked to Nathaniel then.

“Surely, Warden, you cannot believe this is the right path. Whatever was lost here, these lives will be gone in vain if we destroy what might be our best chance of bringing defenses back to Orzammar!” He too looked desperate. “King Bhelen has called upon the Casteless to fight. We can learn from this. We do not have to make the same mistakes they made here then!” 

“They did not even succeed!” Sigrun shot back. Nathaniel just held up a hand.

“I speak for Commander of the Grey Eideann Cousland when I say that golems are a risk we cannot take,” he said in a measured tone. “She is the greatest supporter Orzammar has in driving back the darkspawn. Her own forces are engaged across the Deep Roads in a battle to reclaim lost thaigs.” Jerrik looked furious but Nathaniel gave him no room to speak. “I am her representative, both as Commander of the Grey and as Queen of Ferelden. When I tell you that Orzammar is not alone in this fight, I mean it. I will spill my blood in these roads to keep them from the darkspawn hordes. But we did not come here to find the golems, to deliver the means of their creation back to the dwarves. We came here to find the expedition, to learn what had stopped them. And now, it seems we have.” He glanced to Sigrun, who still looked ill. “A golem, or something meant to act like one, an experiment gone horribly wrong. Magic is dangerous, and this sort the worst kind. This is blood magic, using people and lyrium to bind flesh into a new being. This is evil. And I cannot let it stand, not when the number of those lost to try and recreate this sacrificial art numbers already in the hundreds.”

“You cannot know that!” Jerrik protested.

“Look at this place, Jerrik. Look at it. Once it was a research center. Now it’s covered in blood. There were hundreds of workers here doing the bidding of King Valtor, sanctioned by him. And now they are all of them gone, destroyed. How?” He shook his head angrily. “I’m not going to be party to the destruction of the dwarves. I am a Grey Warden. I defend. As does Sigrun. And golems are not the way.”

“So you will stand against me then?” It was Brogan who finally shook his head, reaching to touch Jerrik’s shoulder.

“No, Jerrik,” was all he said. And Jerrik finally sighed.

“So be it, Warden,” he said unhappily. “But if anything at all can be saved…”

“We are not as hopeless as it seems, Lord Dace,” Sigrun said quietly, “but if we sacrifice all that we are, we will have nothing left to save.” Jerrik gave her a quiet look, studying the markings on her face, the sign of her Legionnaire vows. And then he sighed, bowing his head.

“I suppose, Warden,” he said softly, “that you, of all people, would know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amgarrak, magic, and golems:  
> The notes in Amgarrak are scattered across the thaig in weird locations. For continuity's sake, I'm having research stations established (it seemed like this expedition might at least manage that, and the original researchers probably DID have workstations instead of scattering stuff all over). I won't be going through all the individual detail of Amgarrak, only the important parts of the story. In the original story, the golem is a piece of this mess, but I have added Sigrun into the mix for her unique perspectives on golems (she traveled with Shayle and was at Cadash Thaig after all) and being Casteless (she knows that better than anyone). This is still Nate's story, but Sigrun has a say here. Jerrik Dace comes from a family that actually does have surfacer connections and ties (they oppose House Helmi in their willingness to coordinate with the surface dwarves) and as such he does acknowledge she is a person (House Helmi doesn't even do that for Casteless). It's important that the dynamic of desperation here is one of "we are alone" from the Orzammar dwarf's perspective, and that Sigrun's is that of the outside world. Jerrik later becomes an active member of the Denerim Merchant's Guild (Inquisition lore actually here) and so this is as much about bridging that gap for him as well. House Helmi funded a LOT of expeditions to reclaim places like Kal'Hirol (and Ortan Thaig and Caridin's Cross and Cadash Thaig lie upon that same road), so this is House Dace attempting to one-up them before they lose everything to House Helmi. A failure here is a critical blow, and that is why Jerrik is pushing so hard, but ultimately Eideann has been open about the fact she is doing all she can to save the dwarves (both to her people and to Alistair, who informed Arl Bryland even in the last book) and she chosen Bhelen as King to bring the other castes into that fight. The situation of the dwarves being alone in the Deep Roads is less dire than it might at first appear because Keenan and his team are already working on reclaiming those thaigs. This is the objective for their group. So, that said, we're moving forward on that sort of storyline.
> 
> Lothering and the Battle of Lothering:  
> After Vigil's Keep fell to the Orlesians, King Vanedrin met the Orlesian invaders at the Battle of Lothering (8:24ish). He was slain there, as was Teyrn Ardal Cousland (last known wielder of the Shield of Highever) who came to his defense. King Vanedrin was succeeded by his son, King Brandel, who became known as King Brandel the Defeated as he never succeed in uniting Ferelden and reigned over two decades of war before Orlesian forces at last sacked and claimed Denerim. Ferelden is then occupied for 58 years. Brandel continued to attempt to lead a rebellion, but it was his daughter, Moira the Rebel Queen who really rallies the rebellion. Brandel is King Maric's grandfather.  
> The field Hawke visits is NOT canon, but the location is close enough and since spirits do gather where there has been fighting and battles and death, this seemed a fitting place for the Veil to seem weak and strange for a young mage.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie, Carver, Fenris, and Merrill return to Kirkwall; Sidonie and Carver reunite with Isabela who has work; Carver goes to speak to Meeran and finds a new lead for work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence, Domestic Violence (implied), Sexual Harassment (implied)
> 
> Oh my goodness, what a long wait. Sorry for the massively long delay. I have been so busy with real life things that Dances ended up on a hiatus while I dealt with everything. Here is the long awaited chapter, and finally our story is back! Thanks so much for waiting, and thanks to all my lovely readers. As always, comments are always welcome! <3 ~HR

Kirkwall looked as it always did, as if they had never left, as if the Chantry battle had never happened, as if they were not hunted by Templars now, with fewer and fewer allies as time went on. The Hanged Man was just the same with its permanently half-drunk clientele, its awful ale, and the stench of vomit and piss. But there was some comfort to the strangeness, Sidonie decided as she slid her tankard along the table occupied by her friends to claim a seat near Isabela. The raider promptly helped herself to the drink first, relieving Sidonie of the burden or whatever else she thought she might doing, and then set it down again half-full with a sigh.

“So, things have been quiet,” she explained. “Not much stirrings from the Chantry. Guard Captain Man-Hands has been beefing up patrols in Hightown but other than that the Templars had gone…suspiciously quiet.” Sidonie gave a gruff sigh, cupping her tankard in both hands and peering into the murky contents. 

“No, they won’t just let it go…” she said softly. “I’ll…just have to be careful.”

“Well you don’t use magic for your work anyway, kitten,” Isabela stated quietly. Carver gave a mirthless laugh beside her. 

“Why are you still here?” he insisted. “Shouldn’t you be running as fast as you can in the opposite direction.” Isabela’s gaze was like blocks of jagged honeycomb as she looked to Carver then.

“I live here, now, sweet thing. And I have business.” Sidonie shook her head.

“Well at least that makes one of us. Meeran…our time with Meeran is done. And approaching him now would be…maddingly foolish.” 

“You think he’ll turn you in?” Carver said softly, “or use it to make you stay.”

“I think he’s a sleezy scumbag,” was all the reply Sidonie gave before drinking at what was left in her tankard. Carver sighed.

“Well if you need the coin, I know a man, a friend who needs some help.” She looked expectantly between them. Sidonie gave a smirk, looking up, an eyebrow raised.

“Is this a friend or a…friend?” she said skeptically. Isabela caught the tone and gave a grin.

“I never let him steer my ship if that’s what you’re asking. From what I hear, he doesn’t have good control of his rudder,” she said airily, reaching to sip at Sidonie’s ale again regardless of the pained expression Sidonie gave her for the effort. “His name’s Martin. He has a room right here in the Hanged Man.”

“All the best people do,” came the dry voice of Varric as he joined them. He gave Carver a small nod, then glanced to Sidonie. “Took care of your elf friend, set her up in one of my properties in the Alienage, pulled a few strings. She should be safe there, for the time being.” He took the final seat beside Carver.

“Thanks, Varric,” Sidonie said in a weary voice, earning a soft nod.

Truth be told she was tired, and she needed work, needed…something. So finally she sighed and looked to Isabela.

“Alright,” she said. “Tell me.” If she couldn’t go through normal channels, she would do what she must. Isabela considered all of them a moment, then motioned with her head to follow, slipping from her seat. She finished off the last of Sidonie’s drink and then turned for the stairs.

The back of the Hanged Man was as dingy and grubby as ever. Dirt and dust and empty crates were piled in the back corridors where wooden slats met sandstone walls. The place smelled of smoke from fires that were not properly ventilated. Isabela led them to one of the back rooms. 

Martin was a thin man sitting before one of the smoky fires with an expression weathered by sea, sun, and pain. A jagged scar wrapped about his neck. He was a raider, or had been at least, by his demeanor and lack of general charm. At their approach, he pushed himself up from the battered wooden chair to glare them down.

“Hey, who are you?” Isabela gave a small smirk.

“My, you’re jumpy. Look at you, cowering in a corner.” She crossed room to circle him, which was probably not likely to make him any more comfortable. “What happened to the fearless, dashing raider I used to know?” Martin scowled at her, stepped back. The elbows of his sleeves were worn away, and his expression was wary.

“I’m not a raider anymore, Isabela. I’m just an honest merchant now.” His eyes flickered to Sidonie, Carver, Varric, and Fenris, and he sighed.

“Please, Martin,” Isabela said with a laugh. “You wouldn’t know honest if I tied you up and spanked you with it.” Sidonie raised an eyebrow, considering the man before her.

“You tie him up,” she suggested. “I’ll go find some honesty.” Isabela gave her a smirk and a wink. 

“Very funny, Isabela,” Martin snapped, putting more distance between them. “You said you could find me help. This is the best you could do, eh?” Sidonie raised an eyebrow at the man, and Isabela shook her head, expression growing serious a moment.

“You want the help or not?” she pressed. Martin gave a heavy sigh. 

“Just tell us the job,” Carver said, the grim voice in the room. Martin looked to him instead.

“I need someone to help me find out where the raiders have hidden my stolen cargo. This job’s as easy as a peg-legged tavern wench, and there’s good coin in it to boot.”

“Done,” Sidonie said. Carver shook his head.

“What? No. Details first this time.” Sidonie gave him a dark look. Didn’t he realize that they had no choice? But his quiet stare-down won out and so she gave a quiet nod. 

“Alright. Details,” she corrected, and her eyes slipped back to Martin. “What is this cargo? Why would the raiders want it?” They had only really been interested in larger hauls and gold from Sidonie’s impressions in Kirkwall the past year, and she had been thrown against a fair few raiders with Meeran’s company.

She pushed the memory of burning ships out of her mind.

“How should I know why they want it?” Martin snapped abrasively. “It’s just spices and herbs.” Which made it even more odd. Carver gave a small sniff, shaking his head in disbelief. Sidonie pondered a moment, running her tongue along the inside of her teeth.

“Alright,” she said after a moment. “There’s no port for days outside of Kirkwall. They have to make berth here if they’re smuggling.” Martin gave a nod. 

“I can’t look myself. They know who I am,” he told her, “but the crates bear the seal of the Orlesian Port Authority, so you’ll know it when you see it.” Sidonie rolled her eyes. 

“You’re assuming I know what an Orlesian Port Authority seal looks like,” she said frankly. And also that he was the only man shipping goods from Orlais. Either way, this seemed a dim prospect, and yet there was nothing else to do really.

“Tsk, it’s fancy,” he said, spitting on the floor. “Just like everything Orlesian.” Fair enough. He crossed his arms with a sigh. “I’ve had it with the raiders, and this cargo is the key to me getting on the straight and narrow.” His voice held an ache there that Sidonie realized was desperation. He was not lying. “You’re doing me a huge favor here, friend. Thank you.” His eyes slipped to Isabela who gave him a quiet nod. “And…be careful.” 

Sidonie gave a quiet nod, drawing away then, contemplating.

“So just…check the docks?” Carver said warily when they were out of earshot. “It’s…never that simple.” Isabela gave a small laugh and a shake of head.

“Well, perhaps not as glamorous as you’re used to,” she said simply. Varric looked dubious, then nodded to himself.

“I can pull a few more strings,” he said simply, and Sidonie gave him a grateful look. He met her eyes. “Someone has to feed your mother.” 

“Thank you,” Carver said sullenly, and Sidonie nodded her agreement. She wondered if there had been any developments regarding the estate now that money was going to get tight. 

“Thank him? What about me?” Isabela asked.

“Of course thank you for the work,” Sidonie added. “Especially after…well…after helping the other day.” Isabela gave her a quiet smile, a genuine one with no hidden intent, and nodded softly to herself. 

For all she had lived in Kirkwall over a year, Sidonie had not spent much time at or around the docks. Mercenaries did not often need to deal with ship captains, and the raiders they did target landed out on the Wounded Coast. Not to mention that was where the Qunari compound was, the temporary encampment established after they arrived on the shores of Kirkwall rather unexpectedly during the Blight. The Arishok was among them, chief Qunari military leader, and the group themselves claimed to be waiting for a ship to be sent to pick them up. Sidonie was not sure. She had known a Qunari once in Lothering, who had slaughtered an entire family for no reason she could ascertain. So she gave the compound a wide berth. 

The Harbor Master’s office was an open air affair, rain or shine, a mere table, a set of stairs leading up to a small interior, and awnings of deep crimson to ward off the sun. It was set back among the warehouses that lined the dock. At Isabela’s direction, they went there first, hoping to learn something. She should have known it would not be so easy. 

The first step was just getting someone’s attention at all. Isabela solved that problem, marching right up to a couple of passing dockhands and pausing them in their tracks.

“I’m looking for some cargo,” she announced as Sidonie joined her. One of the dockhands gave her a flat look, then waved his hands about the air.

“You’re in luck,” he said in a flat voice. “Cargo all around. Take your pick.” Sidonie narrowed her eyes and stared, pursing her lips.

“A laborer with a smart mouth. You hardly ever see those,” she snapped, and the other one shook his head, motioning to the desk where the Harbor Master himself and one of his assistants were in an argument over some shipment or other.

“Talk to him,” he said. “I bet he’s got information about your cargo.” There was a look in his eye that said he knew something too, so Sidonie gave him a nod and stepped back to let him through.

“If you’re done wagging your tongue, can we get those sacks off the docks,” the other muttered. Sidonie exchanged a look with Isabela than waved her on.

“After you then.”

“I can’t ask. They’ll want to know about my ship. You’ll have to do it. They know me.” Sidonie grimaced, then glanced to Varric, and the two of them made their way across to the Harbor Master and his assistant, leaving Isabela and Carver to loiter in their wake. 

The Harbor Master gave them a dismissive look as they approached, then looked away from his books with a sigh. 

“Shipping manifest,” he said simply, as if this was routine. Of course they would need a manifest, to prove the cargo was theirs. Sidonie grimaced, glancing to Varric, then shook her head.

“I think I lost it,” she said, which was not the best lie she had ever told. Nor did the Harbor Master believe it. 

“Well, then you can’t bring your goods in,” he said simply. “Viscount’s rules, not mine.”

“You should take credit for those rules,” Sidonie muttered, feeling a little put out. So, it seemed, was the Harbor Master though, because he shook his head, motioning to his assistant.

“Adan, deal with this.”

“Why don’t I take a turn?” Varric suggested quietly, then stepped forward to Adan as the Harbor Master lifted his books and went to speak to a few of the bustling dockhands. Adan had a sly smile like he knew exactly what was going on. Varric and he exchanged a few quiet words, some money changed hands, and within moments they had their target: Alton Woodrow’s warehouse.

Sidonie was nervous as she made her way across the docks. There were Templars there, checking every ship, and she felt like at any moment one of them would turn, immediately know who she was and come for them. At her side, Varric was a sturdy presence, but the real comfort was Carver just behind her, whose expression she could sense even without looking. 

She did not drop back a step, but she did shift slightly to glance back and catch his eyes. He just met them, gave a silent nod.

The warehouse was at the far end of the docks, where the sandstone was butting up against the water and had worn into the Waking Sea over the years. Steps tangled around into dark corridors leading into Darktown and the Undercity and the Carta dens below. Sidonie climbed towards the platform, which was under heavy guard, and found the lead guardsman who had an accent from the Storm Coast and a cocky smirk to match blocking her path.

“This is private property,” he announced simply. Sidonie gave him a dark look.

“There’s a fire,” she lied, but she was definitely willing to start one if she thought it would help. “On the other side of this row. Get help before it spreads!” They wouldn’t want their cargo burned, and a fire in the twisting streets and lanes of Kirkwall could be deadly, especially with flammable cargo and wooden ships feeding it. The man, by some stroke of luck, actually believed her lie. He looked nervous a moment, hesitating.

“Shit,” he finally said. “A fire could destroy the loot. We have to _check_.” Well only mostly an idiot then. Sidonie grimaced, as he took off with one of the others, and that left only the one. Sidonie gave him a dark look, then stepped in, twisted her arm about, and brought him down with a sharp smack to the back of the neck. He would feel that when he woke. Then she looked back. Varric gave her a smug look.

“Not bad, Hawke,” he said, as if he was a little impressed. She just sighed. 

“We’ll see a fight inside though, I’ll bet,” Carver said curtly, and Sidonie silently agreed. Three guardsmen at the front door was not enough to patrol an entire warehouse. No, there would be more trouble inside.

She reached for her halberd staff and pushed in the door.

It was not so different from the other jobs she had done, clearing the warehouse. She could use magic there, but she kept it only to less destructive force, wary of the danger of fire after the others had gone running off. By the time the raiders on watch had been dealt with, all of them were covered in grime and blood. But at least the task was done. 

Sidonie approached the crates of cargo then, checking the inked symbols stamped onto the sides, until she found some wrapped in orange and white sea-stained silk and marked with something flouncy and overdone. She raised her eyebrows, gave Isabela a knowing look, and then Isabela used her knife to cut open the seals. When they threw back the lid, they found clay pots within. Isabela opened one carefully. Each contained a fine black powder that the ex-raider immediately sealed back up again, ushering for Sidonie to stand back.

“Ooo, the Black Hand,” she said with eyes that sparkled a deep amber. “A blend of twenty seven toxic plant essences, with a healthy dollop of cobra venom for that extra kick. That poison will kill a man in two breaths.” Sidonie eyed it up warily. Isabela flashed her a grin. “Can I have it?” 

“No, you can’t have it,” Carver said sharply, crossing to join them and slamming the lid back down. His eyes turned on Sidonie then, troubled. “This…this isn’t spices.” Sidonie grimaced but said nothing. The man had lied. So had many others. At this point…

Well she could not afford to not complete the job. But she didn’t want Carver seeing it.

“Get up to Hightown, find Meeran, check out with him? Maybe there’s something on the Chanter’s board too?” A dangerous suggestion, but they were not leaving Kirkwall. They were bound to cross paths with Meeran again at some point, and better to see their business entirely concluded. She suspected Carver might handle that better than she could, given the fact Carver was bigger, less magey, and better with a sword. He gave her a concerned look, but she gave him a nod. “I’ll deal with this,” she told him, meeting his eyes again. 

Carver gazed at her a moment, then gave a quiet nod. They split up as they reached the docks, Carver taking the taller steps towards the Hightown Market. Sidonie, Varric, and Isabela climbed back up to Lowtown.

“So what will you do then, Hawke?” Varric asked, and Sidonie simply sighed.

“My job.”

Martin was waiting for them, seeming anxious enough when at last they reached his chambers at the back of the Hanged Man. He looked up as Sidonie entered, but at her expression his eyes narrowed.

“Guess what I found,” Sidonie said flatly. “Crates filled with enough poison to assassinate every noble in Orlais, and then some.” Martin gave a heavy sigh, turning his back and running a hand over his short hair. Isabela eyed up Sidonie before joining her.

“I knew I should have told you not to look in the crates,” Martine muttered. “Look, there’s nothing shady going on here. I got the stuff from a legitimate supplier. And I’m going to sell it through legitimate channels. It’s all legitimate.” He looked back eyes dark and tired. Sidonie met those eyes.

“It’s poison,” she said softly. “It kills people.” And not in any pleasant ways, but at least if it was Black Hand it was quick. She sighed, looking away a moment in thought, then bit her lip before waving him away with one hand.

“Oh come on!” he said desperately, stepping towards her. “If I don’t get the goods back, I’m ruined.” Sidonie gritted her teeth, closing her eyes a moment. A decision to pay for another day perhaps. Her eyes cracked open, slid sidelong to Martin, and she sighed.

“Make this worth my while,” she said darkly. Isabela gave a soft sneer beside her that Sidonie caught out of the corner of her eye. Martin stared at her a moment, then finally something gave. He dug into the pouch at his bag, tearing out a small coin-purse and holding it out. Sidonie reached to take it, but he didn’t let go right away.

“This is all the coin I have,” he told her fiercely. “Now will you please tell me where my cargo is.” Sidonie met his gaze, scanning his features, the jagged scar at his neck and the weary creases of his eyes. She nodded.

“Alton Woodrow’s warehouse on the western docks,” she said softly. The purse dropped into her hand and Martine sniffed, pushing past her without another word. Sidonie did not watch him go, she dropped her gaze to the coin-purse a moment and then she gave a sigh. She tucked it away inside her own belt pouch, glancing to Isabela then.

“Thought for a minute you wouldn’t tell him,” Isabela said. Sidonie sighed.

“I did as well,” she admitted. “I need to handle a few more things before I head home. I’d rather not deal with my mother just yet.” Leandra would be sick with worry to find they were back in the city so soon, and to catch them thick in smugglers and thieves once more. Better to be clear of all of that before things got too rough.

She intended to follow Carver now, check he was not in any more trouble. She had sent him because someone had to go, and he was less likely to be blackmailed into staying, but Carver was still at risk. She did not trust Meeran as far as she could throw him, and after everything…well…

“I’ll come with you,” Isabela announced simply. “I wanted a look around the shops.” 

“You don’t have any money either,” Sidonie laughed. Varric just scoffed.

“And that is why I am _not_ going,” he declared. “You know where to find me if you need me, Hawke, Rivaini.” And then he peeled away.

“So,” Isabela mused, a small smile playing at her lips. “Good to be back?”

“In this shithole?” Sidonie said, raising an eyebrow and crossing through the tables to the door. “Actually, yes. Yes it is.”

***

Carver shoved the door of the Blooming Rose open roughly, stepping out into the glaring sunlight with a dark look on his face and a sigh. Dealing with Meeran was never a pleasant experience, especially with the man breathing down his neck and making a pass at his sister. He forced the anger down at that and instead focused on what was done. 

They were free. That was what mattered. Their year of service was up, and they were free, and they had ended on a good enough note that Meeran would keep Sidonie’s magic to himself a little while longer. Unless it proved profitable for him to divulge the information of course, and now that their deal was concluded, Carver did not feel free in the slightest with that still hovering over their heads.

He made his way across towards the Lowtown steps, avoiding a group of noblewomen who were in deep discussion on the way back up.

“And I heard,” one was saying in a shrill voice, “that the floor tiles were cracked clean open.”

“The Templars are at a loss,” another said quietly. “Even that Knight-Captain has no idea who could have done it, or so they say.” Carver paused, eyes narrowing, feeling a flash of fear.

His thoughts were brusquely interrupted by someone calling his name.

“Carver!” He started, looking about, and saw Aveline coming towards him. Wonderful. More to make his day go well. His favorite person here to torment him. “Carver, I heard you were out on the coast?” 

He was wary at her words, but crossed his arms to glare her down. Who cared what she thought of him now? Guard Captain or no, she was still the one who told them not to accept his application, who consigned Sidonie and himself to a year’s work while she skirted by free on a better deal with rations and a bunk and new clothes. He gritted his teeth and said nothing.

“Alright,” Aveline said darkly, “no need to be a tit. I assumed you were working for Meeran.” That…ah, well then. He gave a soft nod, a better cover than anything.

“Only just got back,” he said, and with that sealed their story. Aveline was no friend, not with her new calling as the keeper of the peace in Kirkwall now, and by the Maker he was not going to trust her.

But the rumors troubled him, and Meeran would easily sell Sidonie short if he found out it was her doing the magic at the Chantry the other day. He felt a sick feeling settle in his stomach, sensed the trap squeezing shut, and looked away, eyes stormy, as Aveline drew up before him.

“Do you have a moment?” she asked him curtly, with all the expectation he would follow her. Carver stayed put, and so Aveline gave him a flat look. “Right,” she said, arching her brow. “Alright then, we’ll do this here.” She turned her back on the crowd after giving a nod to one of her guardsmen in passing, and then gave Carver a dark look. “Listen,” she began, and he settled into an uncomfortable and inconvenienced stance. “I know you’re still sore about not getting a job in the guard. I will stand by that decision, but I know you’re coming to the end of your year, and that things will be getting harder for you and Hawke in the weeks to come. I’ve heard as well that you’re looking for a way to make ends meet, and trying to raise enough to go on some expedition. I can’t say I approve of your methods, Carver, but I understand your reasons.” She met his eyes with her fierce green and for a moment he was taken aback. He had, in all honesty, expected to hear more from her about the Chantry attack. Instead this. He gave her a suspicious look, eyes narrowed and wary. 

“Get to the point,” he said gruffly. He did not like the idea of standing there waiting for someone to come out of the Blooming Rose – one of Meeran’s men perhaps – and see him there speaking to the Guard Captain. That could make him an informant in the eyes of people who might still give them work, and it could put Sidonie at risk as well. 

Maker, he hated all of this. 

Aveline met his glare with one of her own, and he backed down a little, but then she shifted.

“I can’t make you a guard, Carver,” she told him for the umpteenth time, “but I can offer you something. There’s been a disappearance, which the guards have until now let slide. It could be nothing, but if you give me a hand and it does turn out to be something, they’ll be a reward from the Viscount’s office for you for your assistance.” 

“Like when we dealt with your bandits?” Carver said pointedly. Had they gotten anything from that? No. Aveline had gotten a job, but that was all. And her promotion had caused them trouble among their contacts as well. 

“Carver, I’m offering you work. If you don’t want it, say so.” Carver gave a sigh, then pursed his lips in thought. Any work was better than no work, and while it stung his pride he needed some way to keep Sidonie safe. If they had money, if they had connections, they had a defense. So he relented.

“Alright, Aveline, what’s this lead?” he asked, and she gave him a calm look, resolved and determined now apparently. 

“There’s a nobleman called Ghyslain de Carrac,” he said, pressing a paper into his hands. “There’s the address. His wife is the one missing.” 

Carver peered at the paper a moment, then back up with a dark glare.

“And if I find out there’s nothing?”

“I’ll be grateful for the help.” Carver shook his head.

“It’s not enough,” he said frankly. “When you ask for our help, that’s time we spend not doing other jobs that pay.”

“You’ll have a reward then,” Aveline said coolly. “I’ll get you a chicken. That will feed you for a few days at least if you’re clever. Don’t push your luck, Carver.” The guardswoman stared him down and for a moment Carver remembered that she too had been on the field at Ostagar, that she too had lived through the darkspawn onslaught and fled into the hills when her king fell. He was a little cowed at that, and paused, then gave a nod. 

“Fine,” he said, and then walked away, putting some distance between his anger and his purpose, leaving her watching his retreating back. Let her play her games if she would. If a chicken was what they got for failing…

He did not expect to come upon Sidonie in the Hightown Market. She was there with Isabela, the pair of them perusing a stall they could never hope to afford, looking grimly at the merchandise with the quiet looks of people who were only there for the basest of amusements. He gave them a sullen look, then finally crossed to join them, coming up between them.

“Ah, Carver, I don’t suppose you’d like to treat a pair of ladies,” Sidonie laughed, but there was a hollow look to her eyes like she was there to forget something else. He wondered what she had done about the poisons they had found and decided he did not actually want to know. Isabela gave him a smirk and a wink.

“Did you finish the job?” he asked softly, and Sidonie sighed, giving him a flat look that demanded no reply. “I…I spoke to Meeran. And…well I have some work, if you’re interested.” Sidonie perked up a little. 

“For who?” she asked, as if that mattered anymore. 

“Aveline, actually,” Carver replied, slipping her the paper with the address. “This man’s been asking about his wife.” Isabela peered over Sidonie’s shoulder, then pursed her lips.

“Ghyslain de Carrac?” she mumbled, then shrugged. “If it pays well.” Sidonie looked suspicious. 

“Does it pay well?”

“Dinner for the next three days for trying,” Carver replied, slipping the paper away. “But you have to stop shopping.” 

“Fine,” Sidonie said, glancing to the raider Captain. “Interested?” 

“And the alternative is?” Isabela replied. Sidonie gave a small smirk.

“She could go back and drink more,” Carver muttered.

“Can’t, sweet thing,” Isabela laughed. “Varric won’t buy me any more drinks.” And with that it was settled. 

Ghyslain de Carrac lived up on the terraces just of the Market in one of the smaller estates. The home was a little run-down, bespeaking of wealth now forgotten or lost, and the front door was open. Just within, a man was stalking about in the front hall. Carver drew alongside the door, listening, and realized there were guards already inside, which made him immediately irritated. Aveline had told him – 

He sighed as Sidonie gave him a little shake of head and paused to listen in. 

“This is a domestic matter, Serrah. If your wife has chosen to leave you, there’s nothing we can do.” Carver narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms, as the Orlesian nobleman scoffed and shook his head.

“Ninette is my wife!” he insisted. “She’s legally bound to me! Bring her back!” The guard just shook his head, turning for the door and pushing his way out past Carver and Sidonie and Isabela onto the streets. 

“We’re done here,” he announced, and then glared back at the other man before carrying off down the terrace. Carver watched him go, then looked back, exchanging a glance with Sidonie.  
Ghyslain de Carrac threw up his hands in frustration, then looked them with a scowl and a sniff. His pointed beared was oiled down until smooth and shining, and his hair was slicked back as well. He grimaced.

“You look like the sort of people who can handle yourselves,” he muttered after a moment. “If you can find Ninette, I will gladly pay you.” He shook his head. “That foolish woman has caused me nothing but embarrassment! She needs to be dragged home!”

“She’s your _wife_ ,” Isabela snapped, saying what they were all thinking, “not a dog.”

“Huh, a least a dog could be trained,” Ghyslain said, face twisting into disgust, but he shook his head. “Her…family is getting suspicious,” he admitted. “They think I might have… _done_ something to her.” Carver felt a wash of anger and shook his head.

“And who’s to say you didn’t?” he said back. With an attitude like that. Ghyslain gave a sharp huff, crossing his arms.

“You’re more concerned what her family thinks than what happened to her?” Sidonie said, incredulous. Ghyslain gave another impatient sigh.

“Ninette,” he said in irritation, “keeps the company of other men, and makes no secret of it! I’d be better off with her gone. As long as her family knows I have nothing to do with it.” Carver shook his head.

“I can’t imagine why she’d leave you,” he hissed. “You’re such a prize.” The Orlesian simply bowed his head, his expression faded into somber reflection a moment before he drew a long-suffering breath. 

“It wasn’t always like this,” he said, eyes quiet and sorrowful as he looked between them then. “We were in love once. She defied her parents to marry me.” He sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if I dreamed those years.” Carver just scowled, and Sidonie shook her head.

“Do you think she might be in trouble?” she said shortly, impatient with the man. Carver could feel the annoyance rippling through her, the disgust as this man’s seemingly ill-conceived concern. She wanted basic facts, and she still had not decided to help. If Aveline’s real guard wouldn’t…

“Tch. It’s her own doing,” Ghyslain spat, “gallivanting about with men half her age! Bah, she’s just trying to show me I am tied to her purse strings!” Sidonie’s look hardened. Carver felt another wash of anger and distaste, and Isabela crossed her arms. 

“You don’t even care if your wife’s alive or dead,” Sidonie spat, her voice gone low and angry now. She turned away, towards the stairs, Isabela in step behind her. Carver moved to follow, but Ghyslain caught his wrist. 

“You’d leave her to die?” the Orlesian demanded. “Just to spite me?!” Carver hesitated. He…couldn’t. As horrible as the man was, that in itself was a point. The man did not need to be pleasant to make a point that other people should be better than he was.

“If you reconsider,” Ghyslain spat, pulling away and reaching for his door handle, “talk to Jethann at the Blooming Rose. Ninette visited whores.” And then he slammed the door in their face and left them to it. Carver stared a moment longer, then sighed, turning for the steps where Isabela and Sidonie were waiting, feeling a little unsettled.

A horrible man, that much was true, but possibly something, and with the promise of payment, a something that could not be ignored. He glanced Sidonie a moment, then gave a quiet sigh.

“And if something has happened?” he asked softly, and she just gave a nod. 

“I suppose,” she said in a quiet voice, “we begin our search with Jethann, and hope he might have some leads. But that, first thing tomorrow. For now, home. Mother…Mother will be waiting.”

Ah good, another conversation he did not want to have. Carver gave a disgruntled sound, then turned for the Lowtown steps with a sigh. 

Another day, another set of worries, and the eternal fear that the Templars would find them. This could not continue. This could not go on. They needed another way. He just had to think on how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES:  
> Varric is a businessman. He mentions in Inquisition this means he has a lot of holdings, and as technically Deshyr of Kirkwall, he and Bartrand probably have a fair number of business dealings in and around Kirkwall itself, mostly tied up in property. It stands to reason then that the reason Merrill gets a house so easily when the Hawkes have to stay with Gamlen in Lowtown is because someone pulled some strings, and the bets here are on Varric.
> 
> Regarding the Ninette story, it felt weird to just stumble upon this one when Hawke knows the Guard Captain, and the Guard Captain knows Hawke is looking for more work, so a few tweaks to give Aveline and Carver a little more interaction here. Also, for continuity's sake, people are definitely gossiping about Kirkwall events, because it's quite silly to believe they wouldn't.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie, Carver, Isabela, and Varric exchange a few words with Jethann; there is trouble and opportunity both at the Viscount's Keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: sex work, sexual abuse (implied/mentioned), child abuse (implied/mentioned)
> 
> Basically these warnings will stand for the duration of the creepy Ninette de Carrac and Kelder/Magistrate arcs. That's something that's implicit in game. I will absolutely not be graphically describing anything of the sort, but these overtones exist in the game and I WILL be calling attention to them as they are presented with an aim to handle them responsibility and appropriately (they will NOT be glorified in any way but rather managed maturely with an understanding of the long-lasting impacts).
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, sorry for the delay in chapters. I've been trying to work out how to get this story flowing again without getting bogged down in the drag of the middle of Act 1, and have finally found a way, so enjoy the kick-off here as our plotlines start to tangle. Comments are AS ALWAYS loved and appreciated. I write this and do all my lore videos and things for you all for FREE so...pay me in comment love? 9.9

Sidonie’s eyes were cold as she stalked down the Hightown flagstones in the direction of the Blooming Rose. She was angry, irritated. This Ghyslain fellow had rubbed her the wrong way, and frankly she was just about ready to give in. But she had seen the look in Carver’s eyes. If there was something to be done, it should be done, and there was a promise of reward. She had no further leads, so to the brothel it was.

It was too early for most clientele. Those left were actually on their way out, not in, stumbling bedraggled from courtesan beds stinking of perfume and sex. In their year in Kirkwall, Sidonie had crossed the threshold of that establishment more times than she cared to count. Some say it was Coterie owned, or at least that the head of the Coterie was a significant investor. Mostly it was Meeran’s preferred hangout, and each time she went in now, she felt her soul sink a little to find herself again on the red-carpets that littered the tile floors. 

There was someone sitting in the corner, strumming some tuneless notes on a lute. A few of the hosts were lingering about the bar, laughing in the morning light – the early risers. Many slept in, especially on nights they were working. A boy, barely ten, was skirting around the bar in a mad dash, a shifty look in his eyes, the son of one of the workers. 

Sidonie was well-known by now as the sort who was rather disinclined to partake. They left her alone, particularly since she was there with Carver, to cross the hall towards the bar. She leaned over it, eyes falling on the silver-haired Madame Lusine, who was the most likely to point her in the direction of this man Ghyslain de Carrac had been certain had run off with his wife. Whether that was truly the case though...that remained to be seen. 

Isabela slouched at her side as Carver stared about nervously. It was only the three of them for now, Isabela having deciding that helping was preferable to doing absolutely nothing but drink away the morning in the Hanged Man. Too early for piss-water she had said. In Sidonie’s opinion, the drinks at the Hanged Man made it permanently too early for piss-water, but she kept that to herself.

Varric had left word with Isabela he had business to attend to that morning and would find them soon, but until he did Sidonie was left loitering at the Blooming Rose bar as one of the whore’s rat-faced son dashed about delivering drinks to a less-than-awake clientele.

“You know,” the raider said, giving her an amused look, “there are some _very_ pretty people here, Hawke. What say you and I find one we like and split the cost?” 

“And who would be paying for that, I wonder?” Sidonie asked dryly, sliding her glance over towards the other woman who gave an amused laugh.

“Brothels can be such good fun, you know. You remember that conversation I had with that healer Warden friend of yours? I met another pair of Grey Wardens in that very same brothel. I hear they’re King and Queen of Ferelden now.” Sidonie drew up short, and she heard Carver turn back to them.

“Eideann Cousland and Alistair Theirin?” she asked softly.

“That’s the one. She beat me at cards. Nice eyes, that one,” Isabela mused. “And he had some lovely strong hands.” Her gaze flickered to Carver’s arms a moment, and then she gave him a wink. “Not as lovely as yours though, puppy.” Carver blushed, turning his face away.

“You played cards with the Queen of Ferelden,” Varric barked a laugh. Sidonie looked over sharply to see him making his way towards them, Bianca at his back, fresh-faced in the early morning, eyes sparkling as he considered Isabela. “I can’t tell whether I want to believe you or just let that one go.” 

“Oh it’s the Maker-taken truth, sweet thing,” Isabela laughed, leaning back against the bar with sparkling eyes, both hands propped against the wood now. “Almost convinced her to share him with me. Which gets us back to the current plan.” She glanced back to Sidonie. “Do you want to?” 

“No,” Sidonie laughed, giving Varric a nod as he joined them, and then looked up as Madame Lusine approached with a face that looked like she’d been eating too many raw lemons. 

She was wearing a gaudy pink and purple silk dress, her hair curling limply in the heat of the room and under the weight of heady incense. Her eyes were ringed with too much make-up, her lips a startlingly unrealistic color. Everything about her was false, except for the coldness in her gaze. 

“Serrahs Hawke, Master Tethras, and the Pirate Queen Who Never Pays,” she said in quiet greeting. “What might I do for you today?” 

“Not here for booty this morning,” Isabela said at the look in Madame Lusine’s eyes, “though we have heard rumors of a Jethann in the establishment?” 

“If he’s willing to speak to us, we’d be grateful,” Carver added, a blush apparent. 

“Coin for time or get out,” Madame Lusine said, and so Sidonie gave a low sigh, digging into her pockets and shoving a silver into Madame Lusine’s hand.

“We won’t be long,” she insisted. Madame Lusine gave her a sour look, then directed them up the steps to one of the back rooms. Isabela and Sidonie took the lead, Carver sullenly in tow with Varric following along behind him.

“Cheer up, Junior, you have a face like a dying bronto. What’s got you all bitchy so early?” he said as they climbed the steps. Sidonie glanced back in time to catch Carver shooting her a dark glare. Varric just chuckled a little. “You know, Junior, you’re looking at this all wrong.”

“Whatever it is you’re about to say,” Carver said darkly, “I’m not interested.” His look was one that said his position at the head of this investigation had been usurped, but what had he expected. He was blushing while asking for time with a prostitute to find information. Sidonie just wanted this done. So she said nothing and let him sulk. Better he get it out one way or another. Varric did no such thing.

“I’m a professional younger brother. Trust me, the center of attention’s the worst place to be,” the dwarf explained with a cheery tone. “When things go wrong, and they always do, that’s where all the fingers point.” _It is all your fault._ “Look at any kingdom in Thedas. You’ve got people who warm thrones, and people nobody sees who do the real work.” Sidonie gritted her teeth, disliking the comparison and deciding she was in no mood to entertain him as such. Instead she reached the top of the steps and started down the corridor. 

“And my sister is a queen in this scenario? Perfect,” she heard Carver mutter at her back.

“Point. Missing it. Ah well.” Sidonie rather thought she might be missing his point too. Or maybe…Varric had missed his own point. Those words spoke far more to Varric’s opinion of himself than his opinion of Carver or Sidonie, after all.

The rooms at the back of the second floor were not for patrons but the living quarters of the various workers employed by the Rose. They navigated through a small sitting room, where a pair of half-clad women were lounging about drinking cheap wine, towards the room on the end. And it was there they paused, Sidonie hesitating before giving a sharp knock.

There was the sound of someone shifting inside and then, after a few short moments, the door opened.

“What is it?! I – Oh.” The elf behind the door softened, giving a quirky little smirk and settling seductively against the doorframe. “Oh hello.”

“Are you Jethann?” Carver asked. The elf’s eyes skimmed over them all, and a smirk touched his mouth as his gaze fell on Varric, and then he gave a small little nod.

“Today’s my rest day,” he said after a moment, his gaze flickering to Sidonie’s, “but I’ll make an exception for _you_.” 

“Oh good,” Carver groaned, glancing away with a soft blush. Sidonie raised an eyebrow, then looked back to Jethann who was watching them with laughing eyes.

“What can I say?” he said, pushing the door open wider. “Why work if you’re not working _hard_?” Sidonie rolled her eyes, but Isabela gave a small laugh.

“Oh, I like him. He reminds me of someone,” she said, eyes sparkling as Jethann invited them inside the small chamber. It was nothing special, just a basic room with two stools by the fire and a small bed in the corner, proof he was a bit more successful than the other workers at plying his trade. He crossed to the mantle, reaching for a jug of wine, and poured himself a cup, considering them.

“I can see why Ninette liked you,” Sidonie said with a small smile, crossing her arms as Carver leaned into the doorframe at her back. “You’re feisty.” Jethann ran his fingers through his flame-colored hair, pulling the long strands back from his face with a soft chuckle. It was deeper and darker than his voice had previous betrayed, the man beneath the mask. He sipped his wine.

“A refreshing change from the pale slug I married,” he said with a smirk. “I hear she finally left her worthless husband. Good for her.” He sighed, then lowered his glass, glancing into it. 

Sidonie narrowed her gaze a little. Something in that made her start, made her more alert. It was not entirely odd for someone to leave town without saying goodbye to their whores, but…well, enough people were starting to sound confused that she was gone. 

“Did Ninette tell you she left her husband?” Jethann gave her a sardonic look.

“No,” he admitted with a little shake of head. “I just hope that’s what she did.” He pursed his lips a moment, then raised his chin. “Ghyslain only wants her for her family’s wealth. But Ninette’s a jewel. Elegant? Worldly? Just the perfect level of depraved? Ghyslain doesn’t deserve her.” Be that as it may, Sidonie’s only task was to work out where she had gone, and that was by Ghyslain’s request, so she sighed and looked about the room again.

“Ghyslain knew about you and Ninette. Did he talk to you?” she said quietly, trying to tie up the loose ends. She didn’t really know how it all fit, but…every bit of information was helpful, and there was a suspicion now she could not shake.

Jethann gave a soft laugh, looking away a moment with sly, blue eyes before considering her again.

“The man,” he said simply, “is incapable of talking.” He reached to set his glass down, shaking his head and crossing his arms. “He came here, yelled at me, called me a dirty knife-ear, among other things, and accused me of corrupting his wife.” He gave a dangerous little smile. “We had him thrown out.” Well if nothing else the description fit, but that got them no closer. They were now short on leads. 

“Well, thank you then, for your time,” Sidonie said with a sigh, shifting towards the door. Carver was glowering in the frame at her lack of resolve, but she ignored it. 

But Jethann stopped her, unfolding his arms and calling for her to wait.

“There was someone else looking for Ninette,” he said after a moment’s pause, like maybe that was troublesome. Sidonie exchanged a look with Isabela as she glanced back, listening. “A Templar. I believe his name was Emeric.” 

That made Sidonie go cold. Why would a Templar want to find Ninette? Was she a mage? 

Since the incident at the Chantry they had been playing it as safe as they could. She did not want to cross paths with a Templar again. Carver shifted from the door, falling in alongside her, a threatening sort of shadow like he sometimes was wont to be.

“Any chance Ninette’s an apostate?” he asked, eyes narrow. Jethann gave a short laugh.

“Well, she certainly cast a spell on me,” he chuckled, and Isabela smirked. Sidonie just rolled her eyes, so Jethann sobered a little. “If Ninette was a mage, I think Emeric would have said so.”

Maybe. But if it was true, if she was not…Emeric was still a Templar. So what reason could a Templar have for trying to track down a woman in a whorehouse? 

Well…a woman who didn’t work at the whorehouse but was a patron, at least. 

“Odd,” she said quietly. Isabela gave her a small smirk.

“Someone else Ninette spent special alone time with, perhaps?” the raider suggested, eyes a-twinkle. Jethann just grinned back.

“She always liked men in uniform,” he said, eyebrow raised. He and Isabela exchanged a set of wicked little smiles before Sidonie gave a sigh, forcing Jethann’s attention back. “Emeric said he’d be continuing his investigation in Darktown,” he replied, glancing to her a moment before smirking back at Isabela. “You could see if he’s still there.”

“Darktown it is,” Carver said with a quiet sigh, though Darktown did not make sense unless Ninette was connected to any criminal organizations. The woman had the money to leave Kirkwall if she wished. There had to be some reason that this Templar was chasing her down into the sewers.

Sidonie thanked Jethann again and turned for the door, Carver and Varric at her side with a contemplative look on her face.

“I’ll…catch up,” Isabela called, and Carver gave her a shake of head before hurrying the rest of the way out and closing the door in their wake. 

Varric was the first to speak, shuffling along down the corridor. 

“I think I have an idea for tracking her down in those tunnels,” he said, aware of the general story from Isabela the night before. “I’ll check in with some of my contacts. A woman is hard to find in Darktown, but a Templar? I am going to pull in a few favors and see if we don’t get some leads.” He gave them a nod and took the first step. “I’ll meet you back here soon, don’t go far,” he announced and then disappeared down the steps. 

And then, with just the two of them, Sidonie and Carver, in the corridor, she said what they both were thinking.

“This is too close.” 

Indeed it was. Too close to Templars. Too close to danger. If the man was in Darktown, they were rambling into the Coterie’s territory, or Athenril’s. 

“We don’t really have a choice though,” Carver said. 

“Yes, we do.” Carver immediately gave her a wary look.

“Sidonie, no.” He was reading her thoughts before she voiced them.

“Carver, this was Aveline’s idea. Why Darktown if this Ninette was just running away? Why not tell anyone where she was going? This…we should take this to Aveline, take it to the Magistrate.” 

“No.” Carver gave her a dark look. “She already thinks I can’t be a guard. This…if we go back with nothing - !”

“What are we even getting for this?” Sidonie demanded, voice a little high pitched. The door to Jethann’s chamber opened and Isabela poked her head out, half naked already and shaking her head.

“Take it outside, Hawke, you’re ruining the mood,” she said. That put an immediate bank on the conversation and so Sidonie gave a soft sigh, turning her head away and stalking back down the corridor towards the steps to the main chamber where the lute music was still hesitantly floating up from within. 

“Look,” Sidonie said as she pushed open the door to admit them out into the street. “If we go down there, we run into the Coterie, Athenril, Meeran’s associates, Anders, and possibly now Templars. I say, we tell Aveline what we have found out, and point her in the direction of this Ser Emeric.” 

“And admit we couldn’t do it.” Sidonie bristled, giving him a dark look.

“This is about more than your pride, Carver!” she hissed. 

“And this is about more than just you!” Sidonie paused a moment, drawing a deep, calming breath. It would not do to cause a stir there in the doorway of the Blooming Rose. She had to struggle against the urge to make fire dance across her fingers to release all the energy that was building up inside. Instead, she took a few steps away from the door off to one side and into the square, peering down towards the direction of the giant dwarven statues that flanked the entrance to the Dwarven Merchant’s Guild. Varric moved quickly. He’d be meeting them with what news he had soon, she knew. They just had to wait a little while for leads to pan out. But even if they did learn something, it was still a Templar, still Darktown, and still dangerous, and Aveline had promised payment even if it came to nothing in the end. 

“Look,” she finally said. “If something has happened to this woman, Aveline needs to know, and the circumstances are odd, certainly. But Aveline has the contacts and the manpower to do a good search and do so safely. And we…we’re two people…two refugees, Carver, and…we don’t owe Kirkwall anything.” 

Carver was quiet a moment. She studied his face, the disappointment, the ongoing internal battle between his own desires to be something more and the fact that what she said was true. And finally he turned his face away.

“Fine. We’ll go. But only because Mother wouldn’t like it if we did it on our own, and…someone should be searching for her.” Sidonie felt herself relax, realizing suddenly she had been very close to just retaliating, and gave a nod.

“Thank you.” 

Carver’s look was dubious.

“I still don’t think you’re right.”

“And I still don’t fancy wandering down there alone to find a Templar and a missing woman when it could very easily be us.” Carver gave her a quiet stare, but had nothing more to add.

And so it was decided. Sidonie turned her back on him then, studying the bustling street of Kirkwall with an anxious look and nervous eyes. Carver peered out at her side, eyes dark and foreboding, until at last she glanced back, recognizing immediately the reticence in his gaze.

“Tell you what. I will meet you at the Viscount’s Keep. Why don’t you go and find Fenris? He should be loitering around that wreck of a mansion again. He might be wanting a chance to get out of that mansion again.” More help was always useful, and he might have heard of some jobs in the meantime. “Tell him we’re looking for more work, and there’s coin in it if he’s interested.” The appeal worked, and Carver, thankful for a job to keep his mind off the waiting, seemed to ease somewhat. Carver gave a curt nod, turning off towards the Chantry. She herself was still very wary of going anywhere near that square after the debacle there where her force magic had been enough to crack the floor. She settle back against the wall of the Blooming Rose to wait.

It was Isabela who found her first, emerging looking much as she always did, with an amused little sparkle in her eye.

“I paid the man for the information,” she announced in amusement, adjusting her blue headscarf with the practiced hands of someone who made a habit of touching herself up on the run. “You missed all the fun, sweet thing.”

“I’m distracted,” Sidonie replied quietly, giving a soft sigh. “Ever since that…mess.” She did not need to be specific. Isabela’s gaze hardened into a little nod.

“They won’t find you. Not if I have anything to say on it,” she replied. “I look after my friends, Hawke.” Sidonie was grateful for the sentiment but not entirely convinced of Isabela’s ability to do so. So instead she gave a small nod, meeting her eyes.

“Thank you.” 

Fenris and Carver emerged not long after, Fenris looking like Carver had dragged him from his bed in the early morning. 

“I assume you have a plan.”

“I’ve told you before,” Sidonie said with a small smile. “I never have a plan.” 

Varric appeared at their side from the back steps rather suddenly.

“Good to know,” he said, joining them and earning an amused look from a slightly startled Isabela. He glanced to Sidonie and Carver. “I spoke with some mutual friends,” he reported softly. Sidonie had a suspicion she knew exactly who those mutual friends might include. There was only one person in Darktown who would have accurate and up to date knowledge of the movements of Templars and that was the one person who needed to be wary of them. Part of her was relieved that Anders had not been captured, though, since it meant he couldn’t turn them in as well. She gave Varric a nod.

“And?”

“Your man’s headed down into the abandoned mining tunnels beneath Darktown.”

“Ugh, the sewers,” Isabela sniffed.

“No reason to head down there without a good lead,” Carver said, looking disgruntled. “Best report to Aveline. I’d rather her guardsmen took over from here.” Well, that had him changing his tune quickly enough. Sidonie nodded, motioning towards the Viscount Keep, as Isabela set about filling in Fenris with all the details of their pursuit of Ninette, including a detailed recounting of her most recent dalliance with Jethann. Fenris spent most of his time looking decidedly unimpressed.

As they climbed the Viscount Keep steps, however, passing through the rather imposing gate, Isabela fell silent. They were a rather ragtag band, clearly the assembly of the destitute and desperate, her mercenary coat a stark reminder that she did not quite fit in there, Varric armed with a crossbow that proclaimed merchant wealth, Isabela in her sail-canvas gown and tall pirate boots, and Fenris so imposing in black he might have been death following them all along. But Sidonie kept her head high, acted like she was meant to be there, and kept her calm as she strode through the great double doors into the antechamber. 

She and Carver were known well enough by some of the guardsmen now that they were halted in the hall by Donnic and Brennan who promptly informed her that Aveline was not there.

“Where has she gone?” Sidonie asked. She could hardly wait if there was a woman missing, even with some Templar already looking for her. In her experience the Templars actually were not all that good at finding things. Donnic glanced to Brennan then.

“She’s gone to meet the Magistrate and the Seneschal,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. Sidonie narrowed her eyes at that, then shook her head.

“Tell me where. This is important.” Brennan sighed.

“Serrah Hawke, you may be the Guard Captain’s friend, but you can’t just interrupt – “

“Where is Aveline?” Sidonie said again, slowly, meeting Brennan’s eyes. At her side, Carver’s arms were crossed.

“She ran into me yesterday. This is about business she requested we look into,” he said simply. Brennan just sighed, then glanced sidelong to the other guardsman at her side. 

“Donnic?” Donnic motioned for them to follow him and Sidonie gave them a quiet thank you, turning to follow. Donnic led them across the chamber away from the guardsman’s wing towards the throne room, weaving through the gathered patrons with a determination. Sidonie followed hot on his heels, eager to be done with it. If she could report this in – if she could just let Aveline know what was happening – then they would be done with this. They could have food for the evening at her promise for the information they already had, and they could leave this to someone else, someone who was far more capable of dealing with the matter – and the Templars – than she. 

But as they approached, she could hear someone shouting, a rough woman’s voice carrying through the doors. Donnic gave a wary look before cracking on open, glancing back to her with a hesitant glance before admitting them all into the chamber.

“Fine!” the rough-voiced woman said angrily.

“Insist if you must,” Seneschal Bran said, unflinchingly, “but Viscount Dumar will see no one. If you’ve news of Saemus, _I_ will relay it to him.” Sidonie had to give it to him for holding his ground. The woman glaring him down had reddish hair against a Nevarran complexion and eyes like shards of steel. She was clad in mercenary armor not too far different from Sidonie and Carver’s, but it was in the colors of a different mercenary band, and that made Sidonie very wary.

“Report her to Meeran?” Carver murmured, but Sidonie shook her head. They were not Red Iron anymore. They had used Meeran about as much as she was willing to for now. So instead she settled back to listen, crossing her arms and watching. 

“Tell Dumar my scouts have tracked the boy and his Qunari captor to the Wounded Coast. I’m taking a full company after them. And when I return, I expect him to make a show of the reward,” the mercenary snapped in return. The Magistrate gave a low glare.

“So many to deal with _one_ Qunari seems…excessive.” If looks could kill, the Magistrate would have died three times in the time it took the mercenary to shake her head.

“He may be Tal-Vashoth. The Winters leave nothing to chance.” She spun on her heel, catching sight of Sidonie, Carver, Donnic, and the others, and forced her way through them, eyes a little wild and angry. “Get out of my blood way.” 

Sidonie watched her go with an arched eyebrow, and then turned back to fix her gaze on Aveline, who took one look at her and then wheeled on Seneschal Bran.

“This is a task for a guardsman, not…cutthroat mercenaries!” she protested. “If you had given me the information before now – ”

“There is…a concern of appearance,” Bran interrupted sharply, voice cutting through the words and causing Aveline to draw up short. “If we used guards, it would allow Viscount Dumar’s opponents to say this admits the Qunari threat because the _City_ responded. In these times, public embarrassment if preferable to official embarrassment.”

“Maker, what now?” Sidonie grumbled, glancing to Donnic who had his hand resting on his swordhilt, minding the door. Aveline just shook her head.

“A boy is missing, Seneschal,” she said darkly. “And if something happens to him to protect your appearances – !”

“There have been sightings of a Qunari. Saemus is known to be…of a sympathetic mind. He may have placed himself in danger,” Bran said shortly.

“But it is danger nonetheless,” Aveline announced darkly. “And the Arishok? What does he have to say on the matter?”

“The Arishok,” the Magistrate said darkly, adding his own input. “has declared that it is not his role to return the boy. Apparently their rebels, the Tal-Vashoth, are hunted anyway, killed for what they are, not for what they have done.” Aveline had a face like thunder. “And we would be best served not to trust their kind with such a thing.”

“But you will trust mercenaries like the Winters who have only an interest in gaining a footing in Kirkwall,” Aveline said sharply.

“And who else should we turn to?” the Magistrate replied. “Your men? After they let one of our top prisoners escape? After the events in the Chantry murders over the last few days? Don’t get me started. Your own company has not even been able to deal with the rabble on its own doorstep much less out along the coast, Fereldan.” Aveline glared him down.

“How many people,” Sidonie cut in with irritation, “are missing exactly? This prisoner, the Viscount’s son, elderly Circle Mages, and Ninette de Carrac’s wife?”Aveline sighed, shaking her head and then glancing back with a defeated look. “Is this a city or a circus?! Maker’s breath!” Sidonie closed the distance between them, glaring at them all, then looking to Sidonie.

“We found no news of Ninette, like you asked,” she said shortly. “We tracked news of her to the Blooming Rose and have reason to believe she’s disappeared into Darktown. A Templar called Ser Emeric has followed her down there, but without proper support from the guard…” She left it to hang. So many incidences all at once. She did not envy Aveline. Kirkwall thrived on crime and its filthy underworld. Sidonie should know – she made her money in those dealings, as did everyone assembled with her, and probably the Seneschal and the Magistrate as well. But Aveline…Aveline was there to do some good, to make it better, and it seemed an insurmountable task from where Sidonie was standing. The core of Kirkwall itself was rotten, and no amount of good guards could make it better. And good guards were few and far between, it seemed. 

“Understood,” Aveline said softly, eyes sliding across to Donnic, who gave a small nod at Sidonie’s side. Then the Magistrate shook his head.

“Regardless, there is still the matter of this prisoner to deal with.” Aveline’s look was cold.

“A request that _should_ have been made of the guard,” she insisted again. Sidonie just sighed, glancing at the Magistrate, an elderly man with slicked back hair and a sickly curve to his thin lips that spoke of a heavy-handed justice and a lifelong skepticism. 

“Why is there such a clamor to catch this man?” she asked. “what has he done?” 

“He’s escaped. That’s reason enough to catch him,” was the short reply, hooded eyes, settling on Aveline. “ A man I sentenced…to a life in prison…has escaped custody. He has been tracked to an abandoned ruin outside the city.” Sidonie glanced back at Carver who looked as unimpressed as she. 

“We’re both intelligent people,” she said, voice thick with disdain. “There’s something in the ruins isn’t there?” With the Viscount’s sun missing, hunted by the Nevarran Winters mercenary company, and Ninette somewhere down in the depths of Darktown, this felt a minor circumstance at best, hardly with anyone’s time.

“There is _something_ , yes,” the Magistrate admitted. “There are…creatures in the ruins. The guards I sent are ill equipped to deal with such beasts. They say these things have already torn through a full company of men.” Sidonie glared.

“Then send more,” Donnic suggested, sounding as put out as the rest of them. The Magistrate sniffed.

“No. The more guards who know, the easier this is for this to get out. Your men gossip like old fishwives.” Sidonie glared.

“There’s a woman and a boy both missing, and you won’t leave this in the hands of the guards?” she insisted.

“It would be easier to seal up the entrance and let the beasts take care of him,” Fenris’s dulcet tones came from at her back. She was inclined to agree. The Magistrate, on the other hand, did not.

“I believe in _justice_ , Fereldan, not unbridled slaughter! I will not let prisoners be eaten just because I don’t want to get my hands dirty.” He glanced to Sidonie and her party, looking them over and reading the desperation in their faces. “Bring the fugitive in alive, quickly, and quietly. Not only will you be well-paid, you’ll have the gratitude of a city magistrate. Useful for a refugee, wouldn’t you agree?” She could taste the poison in those words, but they were not wrong. With mother trying to get her audience, something still in the works, and their own backs on the line, the Magistrate would be a valuable ally, though she was convinced that would not be the strongest friendship she might make. 

The Magistrate took his own ultimatum for granted and did not wait to see her reply. He gave a final glare at Aveline.

“As for you, guardswoman, I recommend you improve the lot of the City Guard quickly, or there shall be words.” And then he swept out with the airy kind of motion of someone who believed himself the arbiter from on high. Sidonie watched him go with a sour look, and Seneschal Bran shook his head.

“That business aside, we cannot risk antagonizing the Viscount’s political opponents with – ”

“Seneschal Cavin,” Aveline said shortly. “I will take steps to deal with the matter personally, while my guardsmen attend to the situation involving this prisoner and Ninette de Carrac.”

“Captain.” It was Donnic’s voice that interrupted now. “There are only a few of us remaining, not enough for a full complement to pursue all the leads.” Aveline gave a heavy sigh.

“Which guardsmen are currently here?” she asked. 

“Myself, Guardsman Brennan, Guardsman Nabil, and Guardsman Wright,” Donnic reported. “The rest are out on patrol.” He considered a heartbeat or two, then sighed. “Guardsman Nabil has been working to bring in the fugitive.” 

“I shall handle the Viscount’s son myself, if…” Aveline’s eyes fell on Sidonie, “if I might get some help.” Sidonie’s eyes narrowed a moment, and she shook her head. Aveline’s look was despairing. “Hawke, please. There are certain things I cannot do in uniform, and I understand you still need the money. It’s a job, like all the rest.” Sidonie grimaced, and then Seneschal Bran took a step closer, fixing her with a look.

“If you would like to try your hand at securing his safe return, feel free. I have certainly granted _no_ exclusivity to the Winter and their violent approach,” he said, with a curt little purse of his lips. “They don’t care one wit if Saemus is returned unharmed, but the reward goes to whomever brings him back _safe_ , a discussion you are welcome to have with the Winters, should you encounter them on the Wounded Coast.” Sidonie glanced to Carver a moment, and Varric at her side shifted, drawing up into the conversation. 

“How much are we talking for a reward?” he asked, as if that would be the deciding factor. But he was right to negotiate, when they needed the coin, and the Viscount’s son was a significant issue. If they could get the funds from their work seeking Ninette, and if they did as the Magistrate bade and brought in the criminal, and if they could find the Viscount’s son as well…they could make enough money to tide them over until the spring. It was cutthroat and mercenary, but it was also a way out, and they had not had a way out in a very, very long time. 

“The price on the Viscount’s son? 5 sovereigns.” The Fereldan currency, sovereigns. Five was a lot for what they saw. Sidonie had never been brilliant at maths, but she considered them now. Five was not so far removed from fifty sovereigns. And she needed fifty sovereigns for the expedition. The remains of what had been in the vault at the estate had been around two sovereigns. No more. This…well it was not the worth of a king, but this was a Free Marches, and that was a significant amount of gold. 

So be it. Five sovereigns, and whatever this Magistrate would give them, and whatever the news of Ninette might earn. Sidonie gave a small nod.

“We’ll bring him back,” she said softly, glancing to Aveline. Aveline gave small nod, and Seneschal Bran gave a curt one in turn. 

“So be it.” He gave Aveline a wry look. “Guard Captain.” He took his leave of them, and Aveline considered them before motioning to Donnic. 

“We still need someone to look into Ninette de Carrac. The Templars cannot be expected to uphold the peace outside of the Circle without it appearing like Viscount Dumar is ceding power to Knight-Commander Meredith.” She turned for the door. “You must take a contingent of men – “

“Aveline.” Sidonie looked up sharply, cutting them off, as an elven man stormed into the chamber, clad in the roughspun tunic of the Alienage, fury on his face. Following closely behind was a pudgy guardsman with a flustered expression. 

“That bastard,” the elven man declared archly even as the guardsman caught his arm and Donnic moved to intercept with his hand at his swordhilt, “is to be brought in alive after all he’s done?! Just because it isn’t you and your pretty little _shemlen_ children he’s after!” Sidonie stared as her company turned. The elf cut a path through them towards Aveline, tearing himself from the other guardsman’s grip.

“Guardsman Nabil, who is this man?” Aveline asked curtly.

“My name is Elren,” the elf declared. “I’m a merchant in the City. Please! No one else cares that our children are being slaughtered like beasts!” Sidonie glanced to Aveline, whose look hardened.

“Calm down and tell me what happened,” the Guard Captain said in a commanding tone. “This is about that escaped convict?” The elf, quivering with rage, pulled free of Guardsman Nabil again.

“The man you’re after! He targets elves! He dragged my daughter into those ruins and killed her! I want him _dead_! My girl, Lia, she wasn’t his first victim. Over the years he’s taken dozens of our children, and not once has he paid for his crimes.” 

Beside Isabela, Fenris’s fingers curled into a fist within his spiked gauntlets. Sidonie drew a breath.

“This fugitive only targets elves?” she said, voice cool.

“We’re easy prey,” Fenris said, looking anything but easy prey in that moment. She was afraid the lyrium in his markings was going to fire up at any moment. “No one things twice when an elven child disappears.” The same was the truth across the entire world, it seemed.

“There must be some humans that would take offense to these disappearances,” Carver said, his expression laced with anger.

“We’re nothing to them,” Elren spat. “Even if this murderer does finally go before the courts, the Magistrate won’t take _our_ word over _his_!” Sidonie glanced back the way the Magistrate had come, eyes burning. The man had refused to say why this man should be brought in.

There was a chance he would be tried properly. There was a chance that his life sentence in prison was enough. But how long had these been going on? A man who kidnapped children for the Maker’s sake?! She was angry. It was enough to take advantage of the poor and downtrodden, and worse when they went undefended.

“I’ll tear his throat out myself,” she said, barely controlling the rage that flickered inside her. She thought of the darkspawn descending on Lothering, of the Chantry steeple alight as the darkspawn swarmed the field and slaughtered all who remained. She thought of Bethany dead, her mother’s little girl, her little sister, Carver’s softer half, shattered by the fists of a giant unstoppable monster. And it all compounded. It was all she could do not to let the fire flicker out across her fingers as her anger flared.

“You couldn’t turn to the guards?” Donnic said weakly, looking like he had taken a blow. So many people, so much distrust. This was a man who believed he was there to do good, learning everything he did came to naught in the end. 

“For all my damned coin,” Elren hissed, “I’m still only an elf. There’ll be no justice for my girl in the courts of Kirkwall.” Donnic’s eyes narrowed.

“What do you say about all this?” he asked, eyes flickering up to guardsman Nabil. “You’re the one who has been assisting the Magistrate in this matter.”

“Yes,” Aveline said, expression dark and full of commanding fury. “What _do_ you have to say?” 

“They won’t go in after him. They’re stalling, trying to give the murdering bastard a chance to get away!” Elren accused, wheeling on Nabil, whose expression was torn between fury and fear.

“Oy now, elf! Like we said before! You’re bleeding mad if you think we’ll be going against the Magistrate’s orders!” Nabil followed orders, certainly, but that made him a loyal man, not a good one. He glanced to Aveline warily.

“This murderer,” Fenris said, eyes dark and shining with an angry light, “ _cannot_ be allowed to walk free.” Elren gave him a relieved look.

“Then that bastard will finally get what he deserves. Thank you.” Fenris’s eyes slipped up to Sidonie and she gave him a dark nod.

“Not wise, stranger,” Nabil said coolly. “You try to take justice into your own hands, the Magistrate will have your head.” Aveline scowled.

“Only,” she clarified, the threat clear, “if it’s reported.”

“Well, we’ll be quiet then,” Sidonie said, in a dangerous tone. Nabil gave a heavy sigh and Aveline narrowed her eyes at him.

“Guardsman, you’ll be accompanying us to these ruins where I expect you to make yourself useful.” She glanced to Donnic. “As for the rest…” There was a moment of consideration as she worked through all the specifics, and then she looked to Carver, completely ignoring Sidonie a moment. “Are you willing to continue searching for Ninette de Carrac?” He gave her a wary look, then pursed his lips and gave a little nod. “I’ll pay significantly for anything you find, Carver. Guardsman Donnic will accompany you. See if you can find this Ser Emeric and see if the three of you can’t track him. Varric?” The dwarf shifted, giving her a wary look, “assistance in this matter would also be appreciated.”

“And me,” Isabela said coolly. “I don’t intend to miss this one.” Aveline gave a soft sigh, then relented.

“So be it, but behave yourselves. You’re acting on behalf of the guard, remember. I expect professionalism.” She turned to Sidonie and Fenris then. “You two will accompany me to this ruin and we will find this convict before he can flee and do any more harm. After that, we can carry on further down the coast and seek out any word of Saemus Dumar. I will not let the City Guard sit idle while these disappearances remain a problem.” 

Sidonie exchanged a glance with Fenris who gave her a cool nod. That seemed to settle things with Aveline, who shifted before glancing to Donnic. 

“I need a word with Guardsman Brennan. I will meet you at the front of the Keep and we can be underway immediately.” 

“Yes, Guard Captain.” 

“Don’t wait for me, Guardsman,” she told him. “You should get underway before the trail for Ninette de Carrac grows cold.” 

“Guard Captain, be careful,” he said softly, and Aveline softened ever so slightly before giving him a nod.

Aveline hurried off through the throne room doors, and Sidonie turned her attention to Carver.

“Will you be alright?” she asked.

“Better me than you, chasing a Templar into Darktown,” he admitted softly. “I will let you know if anything happens.”

“Steer clear of…that friend of ours,” she said quietly, and did not need to specify which.

“No need to talk to Blondie,” Varric said, throwing in the nickname to make it all clear. “I already checked my information, and have a fixed direction. We’re far from his end of town.” That was a vague way of putting it, but gave her some relief, so Sidonie gave a quiet nod and murmured a thank you to Varric before meeting Carver’s eyes.

“Be careful,” she told him. “I’ll…see you as soon as this is done.”

“As soon as it’s done,” he assured her, and then glanced to Fenris. “You…look after my sister, elf,” he said, with no small amount of awkwardness. Sidonie felt something stick in her throat. For the past year they had worked side by side almost all the time. This was the first time they would be splitting up to do so, and she felt it like a pang in her chest, a buried pain working its way back to the surface. She was worried for him. The sewers of Darktown and below were the hive of criminals like Athenril or the Coterie, a hotbed of slavers and scum. Desperate people did desperate things to survive. If something happened…

“Be careful,” she said again as they pushed their way through the doors.

There was a man waiting, a dwarf, standing with his arms crossed and peering at them. Sidonie drew up short, and Donnic gave him a short glare.

“And what do you want?” he demanded, as if he had seen him before. The dwarf just pushed his way past him, presenting his hand for a shake to Sidonie, and then Carver, neither of whom took him up on the offer.

“Jevaris Tintop, merchant and investor,” he said in a cordial tone that stank of opportunity and a lack of moral caliber. “You’re just what a man needs. A skilled enthusiast.”

“Serrah, we have been over this,” Donnic said, brown eyes narrowed. “The Guard Captain has already told you that your presence is not welcome in the Viscount’s Keep – “

“A moment. A moment. I’m doing business here,” Jevaris interrupted. “I heard a rumor that you would be traveling shortly outside the city. I need…forward thinkers to help court the Qunari.” Sidonie drew up short. 

Her only experience with Qunari prior to entering Kirkwall had been the one who had murdered an entire family outside Lothering and wound up in a cage to rot his day away. He had disappeared when the Wardens stopped by Lothering, presumably along with them. Those in Kirkwall seemed dangerous, but kept mostly to their compound. She was very wary of them on the whole, and hardly the one who should be approached to “court them” whatever that meant. She sniffed.

Varric at her side scoffed.

“Court the Qunari?! Maker, think of the children!” he declared. Jevaris brushed him aside without another word.

“Those hornheads,” he explained as if it was perfectly natural to continue with his plan despite her lack of agreement to any arrangement, “have a powder that…explodes. And it’s just dust. No lyrium. No demons. Anyone can use it.” And if that didn’t sound dangerous, Sidonie had no idea what would. 

“So…it’s some kind of Qunari magic?” she said with a healthy dose of skepticism. “What use is that to a dwarf?” He couldn’t use magic, and this magic powder…well…

“If it _is_ magic,” the man explained, giant blond mustachios quivering with excitement under beady eyes, “it’s the kind you can _assemble_ , and dwarves do _that_ very well.” He sighed. Sidonie tried to push past him, but he got in the way again. Couldn’t he see she was about important business? “But,” he announced, like it would draw her attention back again, “that Arishok, he won’t deal, said I have the same mercenary disease as their outcasts, the Tal-Vashoth. He says I’m not worthy, but he had this look in his eyes, so I figure I’ll hire some blades and – ”

“And you’re going to prove yourself by killing Tal-Vashoth outlaws,” Isabela said darkly, rolling her eyes. Sidonie looked back in surprise and the ship captain looked less than impressed with the entire ordeal. 

“Problem being,” Jevaris said with a nod, “I’m not warrior. But I _can_ pay.” 

“Don’t dwarves already have explosives?” Carver said bluntly, trying to move around him on the other side. Jevaris got in his way this time.

“Small things, shaped to crack faults, not shatter the earth. Plus they’re mostly lyrium. Expensive, poisonous, the Chantry controls it topside, the glow makes you a target…problem after problem.” That sounded worse – providing a non-magical way to easily and cheaply blow up the earth? She did not like it.

But who was she to have such qualms? She had provided Martin the location of his highly lethal poisons after all. And there was more than enough in her past year’s work to recommend her for providing dangerous materials to people who should not have it. She was still desperate. For all the money offered, she had none of it yet, not even the reward for information on Ninette de Carrac, and was truly not much better off than she had been that morning, or several days ago. She sighed, trying to think her way around it, out of it, and could not. It did not reconcile with the life she led, no matter how it pained her to admit that doing so could cost so many, many lives. 

_Only your family matters,_ she thought harshly, pushing everything else aside. _You are not responsible for anyone else._

“Look,” Jevaris said, trying something else. “Maybe you humans have magic, all tough and whatnot. But what of the common man? How does _he_ remove stumps from his land, or…produce them on his enemies? What does he do when he needs a hole far too fast? Magic is hard to market, but this stuff? This stuff you can put in a bag.” That did not make her feel better, but it came with the promise of useful, non-violent uses. She had grown up on farms. She knew the struggles a rock or stump in a field could cause. Entire days could be lost on a single stone, often with the help of dozens of people. This could…really help. 

And the magic to do it existed already. This could be regulated perhaps. Or…she didn’t know. 

“Alright, I’ll step in for you,” she said curtly, and Guardsman Donnic gave a noise of protest, but she put up a hand. They were in a rush. “For a price.” Jevaris’s openly desperate look slipped into a wry business mask, and he gave a curt nod, satisfied with himself.

“Best I could figure, they’re up the Wounded Coast,” he declared. “A whole camp. Take their heads off and meet me at the compound in Kirkwall. Get this right, and we’ll be richly rewarded.” He tipped his head to Varric, shot a smile to Donnic, and then turned away. Sidonie gave a heavy sigh, then pushed him from mind.

“Alright. Enough talking,” she said with a grim expression. “We have work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ABOUT "MAGISTRATE'S ORDERS", "BLACKPOWDER PROMISE", "THE FIRST SACRIFICE", "AN UNBIDDEN RESCUE", AND AVELINE'S TENURE AS CITY GUARD
> 
> For a guardswoman, Aveline spends a LOT of time being left out of a LOT of quests. Every one of the "someone is missing" quests has dialogue with her demanding to know why the City Guard has not been informed, and the Ninette missing persons case has examples of the guard being dismissive of it because it doesn't seem connected and they appear to have their hands full. Frankly, Aveline has JUST become Guard Captain, and Jeven's tenure was bolstered by bribes, agreements with criminals, and entirely ineffective institutions (their own guardsmen were running orders WHILE ON PATROL?). So Aveline has her work cut out for her here. Coming as it is in the wake of the Isabela duel outside the Chantry and the Anders/Karl Templar skirmish IN the Chantry, there's probably a LOT of pressure for Aveline to get the guard into shape and a LOT of general distrust in their ability to do everything. But the guardsmen themselves (at least MOST of those we meet) are good people who seem to genuinely believe in what they are doing (this changes for some of them, but even the ones that don't prove effective like Nabil - actually his name - are loyal to the concept of being a guard and serving the city). The guard is significantly weakened, and Aveline has a LONG way to go in building it up, so the fact all this hits at once, people are missing left, right, and center, there's active smuggling, the Coterie and Carta run the Undercity, and there's huge refugee issues as well as the Qunari and whatnot all points to an ineffective governance situation. 
> 
> To be fair, Seneschal Bran is actually pretty bloody good at his job. He GETS politics, sees that frame, and acts as he can. BUT Kirkwalls governing body is pretty ineffective even with that. Not only are the officials corrupt, but the system itself was DELIBERATELY (read: in lore) set up to be AWFUL. 
> 
> A bit of history here: The previous Viscount of Kirkwall was Viscount Perrin Threnhold, who was best known for exorbitantly taxing Orlesian cargo ships trying to make port by blocking Kirkwall's harbor with its giant chains, which in turn led to a threat by the Empire of Orlais to invade Kirkwall. The Chantry stepped in, using its Templar force on the ground in Kirkwall to threaten Perrinwold, and in response he had the Knight-Commander Guylian executed. In response, Knight Commander Meredith Stannard (his replacement) and Grand Enchanter Elthina staged a coup, arresting Threnhold and instituting Chantry and Templar power in Kirkwall. They then deliberately chose a Viscount who would be weak, Viscount Marlowe Dumar who never wanted to job, whom they could manipulate - something which they began doing instantly as Meredith's coronation gift to Viscount Dumar was apparently Perrin Threnhold's bloodstained ring as a reminder of what happened if you crossed the Templars. This all happened fairly recently in history (9:14 - 9:21 Dragon, 16 - 9 years before the Blight) - and it's hot in the news when Cassandra becomes the Right Hand of the Divine, so the Chantry has been watching Kirkwall ever since. 
> 
> This effectively means Kirkwall's government is specifically established to be weak versus the Templars and the Chantry, under a weak Viscount (Dumar - he's still the same one), and with little really power. The City Guard, which operates under that government, can't really act when the Templars are in control (Meredith is, no doubt - everyone around Thedas recognizes Kirkwall as a Templar Hotspot) and so Aveline's really in a bind here. 
> 
> Hence, the situation above, and much set-up for future arcs. In fact, with such crippling governance, corruption is expected. Add to that a weak Veil were demons are capable of influencing the minds of non-mages (we'll see this more later - but it IS historically weak - Meredith actually is not wrong on this point) and you get a recipe for shit. Small surprise everyone's being murdered, kidnapped, or stolen from all the time. Hence, Kirkwall's CRIME story.
> 
> Now the way this has all played out is that Aveline suddenly faces all these disappearances, and rather than have the conflicts with Elren and Jevaris out in the wilderness somewhere (why would anyone be wandering around out there seriously?) they're happening in the Viscount's Keep where governance is supposed to happen, justice is supposed to exist, and dreams of fair treatment, retribution, and assistance currently come to die. As for the Ninette story - Sidonie is NOT going to go chasing a Templar into the sewers. She is an apostate. But that story still matters for character development, so I'm just...letting other people also take care of problems. And Donnic should have a bigger role ;) Also, as a result of all this, some of the dialogue has been reassigned where appropriate because some people should be speaking.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie and company journey to dwarven ruins to deal with an escaped prisoner who has been kidnapping elven children; Saemus Dumar is rescued on the Wounded Coast from Tal-Vashoth and the Winters; Sidonie makes a deal with the Viscount and the Seneschal and finally gets paid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: mentions of child abuse (Kelder), violence, gore.
> 
> Comments always welcome! 
> 
> Back and posting. We're on a regular schedule now. I'll be posting a chapter every Friday. If you like my work, please check out my Tumblr: http://higheverrains.tumblr.com for more about me including lore videos and theory posts, screenarchery, and additional content. ~HR

Sidonie could feel the salt air sweeping off the sea as they traipsed along the path up the Wounded Coast. Aveline, grim-faced and teeth gritted, stalked silently at her side, an angry cat to all the current happenings. Her abashed guardsman, Nabil, followed her with a dark expression. Sidonie’s own shadow was full of Fenris, who was the far more dangerous of the two in tow.

They had been on a forced march from the city, heavy and hard footsteps traipsing through the sands as they cut down the less-traveled road in direction of the ruins where Nabil said the magistrate’s escaped prisoner was hidden away. It was curious, Sidonie decided, that the man had not run farther, suspicious even. He should have fled as far as he could as quickly as possible, but instead he had holed up in a ruin. And this ruin was dangerous, not shelter at all.

“How long as this man been missing?” Sidonie asked after a moment, and Aveline sighed.

“A day? Two? He slipped from custody while we were preoccupied with the incident in the Chantry.” The incident. Is that what they were calling it. Sidonie grimaced, eyes darkening, and considered the path a moment. Aveline said nothing further on the matter, and for that she was glad. She did not want to have to lie to Aveline, but they were at odds in many ways already and it was not for her to make them worse. She owed Aveline something – she was not sure what, or even quite why, but the Blight had given them a certain familial closeness. She felt an obligation to honor the bonds formed in adversity. The fact that Aveline herself was aware of her magic did not help either, but Aveline was one of the few she trusted to hold that confidence.

At least, for now.

They climbed the rise with the general air of a group filled with cold determination, all save Nabil who was still grumbling away as per his wont. Ahead, set back into the caverns of the Wounded Coast, was an outcropping of dwarven-molded stone. Those were the ruins then.

“Do those ruins to connect to the Deep Roads?” Sidonie asked, glancing back to Nabil who simply shrugged and shook his head in reply. He was no help. 

She asked for two reasons. They needed to choose an entrance for the expedition regardless. But more importantly, if there were ways down into the Deep Roads, that could mean ways for darkspawn to come back up. Her eyes slid to Aveline, and she caught her plaintive look. The guardswoman had had the same idea. The monsters in the cave might very well be the creatures of the Blight.

“Nabil, take guard,” Aveline said as they approached the great stone gates. “Hold the path, and if anything happens, you are to report back to the Seneschal immediately. Is that clear?” Nabil gave a disgruntled little huff and drifted away a few steps, hand on his sword hilt at his waist. His eyes were cold like flint as he settled to stand watch. Aveline returned the cold stare until he looked away.

Fenris was the one who reached for the door, his expression dark and cold. Deep sea-green eyes betrayed a turbulent number of thoughts as he drew back the doors with gauntleted hands to admit them.

Sidonie had expected darkness. She could not have been more wrong. While there were pockets of deep shadows within, the air glowed with shining lamps of crafted runes, and channels of lava that lined the walks and granted warmth and light. She slipped in, Aveline after her, and Fenris third.

There was a great boom as the door shut behind them. So much for it being a surprise.

The paths were still hauntingly dark, and in the depths a soft chittering and clicking noise alerted her to the true monsters that had finished off the guards. They hissed high in the corners, back in the dark crevasses of cracked stone, behind pillars of paragons that lined the dark, carved floors. Spiders. 

Sidonie knew just had to deal with spiders. 

It was easier, when she was angry and rushed, to call upon force. The impact was harsher and harder, the Veil snapping out with wild rage to rain blows where her will demanded. The first dropped from the ceiling, and she hit them hard in turn, crushing a few into the stone. Their bodies crunched, blood and ichor smearing across the floor.

She was used to fighting with warriors at her side – she had spent a significant amount of time with Carver, after all. It was a comfort, though, when Fenris and Aveline both surged forward and went on the offensive. Fenris’s lyrium abilities kept him out of the reach of the worst of the spiders. Aveline had all her years in the King’s Army of Ferelden at her back, training as a knight that made her fierce with a sword. 

Kirkwall’s guards had none of that. Kirkwall was a city that ran on crime and blood. The most significant military force within Kirkwall was the Templars and for good reason. Since the overthrow of Viscount Threnhold in 9:21 Dragon, Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard had seen to it that the forces of the city itself – militarily and politically – were significantly limited. The decade since had seen the weakest and most corrupt guards force Kirkwall had seen, and now Aveline was the one who had to contend with it. 

That was why Sidonie was not surprised when they came across the first bodies of the missing guardsmen who had gone in after the escaped prisoner earlier. And it was also why she _was_ surprised not to find the prisoner among them. Such a man must be dangerous indeed if the guardsmen had fallen while he had survived. 

That was, of course, assuming he _had_ survived. She did still want to simply find him dead.   
Her only solace as they cleared the next few rooms was that the spiders did not appear to be corrupted. That meant the Blight had not touched them. And that meant that there were likely no darkspawn. But it also meant this likely was not a Deep Roads entrance. They would have to journey farther away, it appeared. 

The deeper they went into the ruins, the more on edge she became. There was no sign of the escaped prisoner. Aveline looked equally troubled. 

“Aveline, is your prisoner a mage?” Sidonie asked rather suddenly, a sinking suspicion coming over her. Perhaps this was more sinister than she believed. Blood magic or some such.

“No,” but the word did nothing to calm her. “If he was, I would have given him over the Templars. But he is dangerous, Hawke.” 

He had kidnapped and killed children. Sidonie simmered with rage at that alone. She did not want to see anymore dead children. The last time had been in Lothering, shortly before the Blight, when an errant Qunari had massacred an entire farmhold. Eideann Cousland had set him free and conscripted him to battle the Blight. Last she had heard he was a hero. That made her brittle and angrier still.

It took them a good twenty minutes to traverse the ruined paths. They were not sinking deep, just traveling into the side of the cliffs. Wherever they had once joined the Deep Roads, it was farther below, deep down beneath, in lower levels they had yet to find.

They saw no more spiders after crossing through a chamber lit with an eternally burning brazier full of dwarven oil. It flickered high into the corners of the ceiling, but it seemed at last that fortune was favoring them. The spiders were near the entrance, closer to the food, perhaps, that wandered in through cracks in the walls and stone from the paths of the coast. Down here, there was nothing left for them to eat. 

That was when they found her, Lia, Elren’s girl, and Sidonie was relieved to discover that in this that Elren had been wrong. Very wrong. Lia was alive.

She was small, frightened, cowering near the center of the hall, one hand wound tight in her sash, fingers gripped tight. Brown hair, soft and uneven, was tied into a pair of pigtails at either side of her head. Dark fringe fell a little into her eyes as she looked at them in disbelief and fear.

“Who are you?”

Her voice was like sleighbells, soft and gentle and light. Sidonie felt Fenris tense beside her and gritted her teeth. Lia’s big, wide eyes fixed on Sidonie, and then finally settled on Aveline’s guardsman’s armor.

“Please, can you get me out of here? I just want to go home.” There was fear wavering in her voice. Sidonie glanced to Aveline a moment, and the other woman’s jaw was set.

“Lia? Your father told us you were dead.” Aveline’s voice was solemn and somber. Lia blinked, shrinking a little, then swallowed hard.

“Is he safe? Kelder said he would hurt my family if I didn’t come with him.” A shot of fluid rage went through Sidonie, and she saw the lyrium briefly glow on Fenris’s skin as he felt something the same. Such tactics were the staple of abusive bastards. She had been dealing with similar from Meeran and Athenril. But Lia was a helpless little girl, and this Kelder would pay. Aveline was the only one who had any ability to hold her composure, but even that was strenuous, reserved.

Sidonie forced herself to calm, stepping forward carefully and looking Lia over.

“I don’t _see_ any injuries,” she said softly. “Are you alright?” Aside from the obvious, that she was clearly not alright, the girl was already in much better condition than expected – that was to say not dead. But some injuries did not bear physical marks. Sidonie’s eyes fixed on Lia’s and the girl shrank slightly from her at her approach. Her elven eyes skimmed away, down to the floor. The girl was shaking.

“He hit me,” she admitted softly. “Told me I was nothing. I…begged him to stop hurting me.” Sidonie felt the rage again, and drew a slow breath, eyes watching as Lia looked up. The girl was desperate now. “I didn’t think he would, but out of nowhere, he pushed me away and just started crying. Don’t you see? He didn’t _mean_ to hurt me. He told me. There are demons. They make him do these horrible things.” 

A convenient excuse. Sidonie forced her face to stay calm. She did not want to scare Lia, who was seeking any way to gain control, to negate what had happened to her. But Sidonie…she knew better. She pursed her lips slightly, glancing back to Aveline, who met her eyes with cold and fierce anger.

Justice would not be done in the courts. The Magistrate himself did not care. Elren had been right – no one cared for the elves. This man, this Kelder, could hide behind his excuses all he liked, and Kirkwall’s corrupt system would protect him because of the shape of his ears. 

And that…that was wrong.

“It doesn’t matter if the Maker himself was telling this man to hurt you,” Sidonie said firmly, one eye still on Aveline. “It’s still his own damned decision.” Lia gave a whimper, shaking her head.

“I don’t believe that. He couldn’t stop himself.” Sidonie shook her head with a sigh. It was Fenris whose voice calmed her then, a somber, solemn, deep timbre that spoke softly beside her. Who better to know of such cruelty than a man who had been a slave? A man who bore the markings of that life burnt into his very flesh?

“She is a child,” he said quietly, a hint of sharpness by the end, “and does not understand. Her pity is admirable, but misplaced.” There was veiled anger there as always. She recognized it now. In this…in this they had agreement. 

Sidonie sighed, looking back to Aveline, and then raised her chin.

“Aveline, you should take her to the entrance. We cleared the way for now, but just in case there are more of those spiders.” She did not need to say the rest. Aveline’s hands were tied by her position as a guardsman. Sidonie had no intention of bringing this Kelder back now, not with the Kirkwall courts as corrupt as they were. And with Nabil and Aveline both about, word would get back. That…that was not the way this would be. 

She and Fenris would stay. Justice would be done. Since Kirkwall could not serve its people, they would serve instead. A man who blamed his perversions on demons and kidnapped little elven girls? She wanted to tear his throat out. 

Aveline was quiet a moment, and then gave a solemn nod.

“Be careful,” she said, beckoning with one hand to Lia. “And, Hawke? Don’t tell me what happens.” Sidonie gave her a curt nod, and then looked to Fenris as Aveline drew back with Lia in tow, heading back the way they had come. Fenris said nothing, but there was a ferocity burning in his eyes, dark and angry and cold. 

“Let’s go,” Sidonie said, and found her voice matched his demeanor.

They found Kelder in a chamber ahead, the end of the line. He was a small man, in truth, clad in silk clothes rather than the attire of any prisoner. He sat in a heap on the floor, sobbing into his hands, but she felt no pity for him as she entered, only a strong revulsion. His tears held no weight there.

He looked up at their approach, tears staining his pale face, and said in a weak voice, “I knew my father would eventually send someone. I was hoping the beasts down here would get to me first.” 

If that was the case, he certainly expected Lia to die there with him. Even his attempt at suicide was reprehensible. 

“It’s what I deserve,” he said softly, continuing, almost to himself. “I should be torn apart, forgotten down here, not protected by my father.” On that they were in perfect agreement, though the idea did not bring her any joy. Fenris beside her looked cold and grim.

“That can be arranged.” Kelder looked up, eyes sharp and beady. He looked like a man, any other, not out of place in the Hightown market or wandering the pavements outside the Chantry. There was no such thing as looking evil, after all. Sidonie resisted the urge to shrink back, repulsed. She held her ground instead for everyone he had taken over the years.

“He didn’t tell you, did he?” Kelder said, voice rough. “The Magistrate is my father. He’s tried so hard to keep me, and what I’ve done, hidden away.” 

Sidonie’s eyes narrowed. She had suspected corruption, but this…

It decided her, if anything. She had no desire to get the assistance of this Magistrate for her own mother, when he was sending her to drag his perverse son back. She supposed she was grateful he had even been locked away at all, though by his clothes it had been no prison, not in truth. 

“Not hard enough, so it seems,” Fenris growled and Sidonie gritted her teeth.

“He is more worried about keeping his job than doing his job. Just like everyone else in Kirkwall,” Sidonie spat. This was why Aveline’s job was so hard. She was the only one of integrity among them. Kirkwall’s very core was rotten. 

“Father is a good man,” Kelder insisted. “He tried to help, to stop me. But he can’t. No one can.” He looked away. “That elf girl…she had no right to be so beautiful, so perfect.” A ripple of disgust went through Sidonie, and she saw the flicker of anger curl Fenris’s mouth into a snarl at her side. “The demon said she needed to be taught a lesson like all the others.” How many others? How many over the years had suffered because of this man’s twisted filth of an excuse? “The Circle was supposed to help me, but they lied. They said that there were no demons, that I was mad. This isn’t my _fault_.”

Except it was. It was his fault. There were no demons. She was a mage herself and could sense that much. There was nothing. Only a twisted man with his twisted concept of what was right and wrong and acceptable. 

“You torture and murder elven children for being too beautiful, while blaming demons that aren’t there!” she said, anger cascading through her voice, making it sharp and edged.

“I…I didn’t want to hurt them,” Kelder said, eyes hooded and dark in the fiery light of the rune lamps. “They forced me! The demons don’t like it when they cry!” 

“If the Circle suspected a demon at work,” Sidonie said in an acidic tone, “they wouldn’t risk setting you loose in the city.” That would bring the Templars down on them harder than ever, and Kirkwall already had enough Templars. No, this was lies and excuses. She turned her eyes away and caught Fenris’s gaze. “Any last words before he kills you Kelder?” Fenris gave her a cool glare, then stepped forward, gauntleted claws flickering with the blue glow of lyrium. Kelder took a step back, then another, before pausing, face crumpling. 

“Tell my father…I’m sorry?” 

Not good enough.

Fenris’s markings flared to life, he slammed his fist through Kelder’s chest, and tore out his heart. Kelder slumped to the ground, and Fenris turned away.

Sidonie looked once more to the body, then let her eyes skim up to Fenris.

“It is done,” the man said. “As are your hopes of winning over the Magistrate.”

“I have better allies.” She turned her back on Kelder then, setting her staff on her back and slipping back out into the ruin corridors, eyes dark and cold. “Help me with something? I know a way to make sure the Magistrate’s opinion doesn’t matter.” 

***

The Wounded Coast was a sandy wasteland, but in it, he had found solace. It was quiet there, if at times dangerous. Watching the wind creak through the timbers of scuttled ships jutting from the briny waters had been calming. Hearing the quiet shift of the sands blowing along for an eternity brought a sort of piece to his heart, and made him think of the things he had learned, the things that Ashaad had spoken to him of. 

The Prophet had gone to the desert and watched the stirring sands before the truth of the Qun dawned upon him. In a way, the Wounded Coast’s desolate beaches and rocky shores had brought such clarity to Saemus too, and he was grateful for that.

For an entire year he had been meeting Ashaad out on the coast. His questions were met with soft answers, half-answers in truth, for Ashaad was no Tamassran. His purpose was to seek answers, not give them. For all that, he spoke of the Qun, of purpose, of place in a way that gave Saemus a chance to look beyond the life of Kirkwall’s Keep, outside the political schemes of a city that was both literally and figuratively on the edge of a cliff at all times. He had found a certain solace in those moments.

So when they had come for them, in ambush, determined to kill them, all of that had shattered in an instant. 

Saemus was sixteen, old enough. He should have been able to fight. But he was wearing silk court clothes, and was unarmed, and the Qunari that had set upon them were the kind that did not care for if they were followers of the Qun, and in truth might hate them more for it.

There was only one warning, as the Tal-Vashoth, the True Grey Ones circled, from a painted man with a sharp looking spear who stepped forth to speak for them.

“You have endangered yourself coming here, human.” He had no words for Ashaad. “Do not say you were unwarned.” Saemus took a step back, breath catching. “No further. Tal-Vashoth control these passages.”

“Basra…” Ashaad hissed softly, reaching for his spear. The Tal-Vasoth readied their own. But then a ripple went through them, soft and uncertain, and the sound of footsteps caused Saemus to glance back to see who it was that was coming up the path behind him. A woman, with a halberd at her back, and an elf with hair as white as Ashaad’s, and between them a warhound, a mabari from Ferelden? He stared, confused, and she quirked him a small smile before crossing to join them and slipping the halberd strap from her shoulder. 

“Ambushes are usually quieter, qunari,” she called, but her words were for the Tal-Vashoth who were standing about them on the cliffs. What was she doing? Two more people and a dog were not going to make a difference. 

“You,” the Tal-Vashoth said, are not helpless. “I had expected to warn a caravan.”

“If you are as skilled as you look,” Ashaad said over one shoulder, struggling his way around the common tongue, “it would please me if you helped killed them.” The woman, eyes a deep oxblood, considered him a moment, fingers tightening on her staff.

“And I should trust you?” she said softly. Ashaad gave a low growl.

“I have no history of betraying your people. These have betrayed their own.”

“Ah.” The woman’s eyes flickered to the Tal-Vashoth then. “Traitors? There’s good money on Tal-Vashoth heads you know,” she called.

“We did not like our roles in the Qun, so we left.”

“To become murdering thieves? How’s that working out for you?” Her voice was cutting and cold. Saemus gave a low whimper, and took another step back.

“Don’t antagonize them…” he said softly. “Please?”

“Saemus, stay back.” And then, in a shudder of magic, the earth surged. Half the Tal-Vashoth were forced back, and the other half toppled. The elf with the Greatsword was in the thick of them in a moment, darting between them with an unreal speed. Ashaad tensed, staring at the woman, but Saemus put out a hand, shaking his head.

A mage. But this one had saved him. He drew a wary breath, and Ashaad scowled before stepping back, nudging Saemus behind him to keep him protected. The mage and the elf did all the work.

As they wreaked their devastation across the ranks of the Tal-Vashoth, Saemus watched with wild eyes, confused. 

The woman had spoken of money being offered for Qunari, but that seemed odd. Surely the Arishok had done no such thing. He turned his head away as the woman and the elf worked their way through an entire Tal-Vashoth band, closing his eyes against the sights and feeling a bit sick since he could not block out the sounds. She was an apostate, and the elf was…he didn’t know what the elf was, but he glowed that strange blue. 

It was over in moments, but those moments felt like they lasted an eternity. Somewhere in the middle of it, one of the Tal-Vashoth broke through the elf and the mage’s line and came hurtling towards him. Saemus screamed, scrambling back, but Ashaad’s spear put an end to the threat. 

Ashaad waited until the last of the Tal-Vashoth were felled before slowly turning back to Saemus, to see if he was alright. A flood of relief settled through him, and Saemus reached to take his hand.

Asit ta-leb. All was as it should be.

Or all was as it should have been. Until there was the whirring sound of an arrow, whistling through the air, and the thud of it sinking into Ashaad’s chest.

It almost seemed to appear there, perfectly placed over his heart, like magic perhaps, or…Saemus did not know. Another followed, and then another, each slamming through grey flesh and sinking deep into him. Ashaad’s eyes grew wide, and he stared at Saemus, like he was alarmed, confused, unsure what was happening. His mind did not keep up with his body. He slipped to his knees, hunched over the arrows, blood spilling from the wounds. And then he brought a clawed hand up as if he might touched one of the arrow shafts, before his body died, the question still in his eyes. 

Footsteps up the sands brushed roughly past Saemus, a woman in red mercenary armor surveying the work, bow in hand. And then she placed a worn boot on Ashaad’s shoulder, kicking the body down into the dirt, and Saemus watched with parted lips as she grinned and then spat on the corpse. 

“And the world’s rid of one more Qunari,” she said with a pleased little voice. Saemus’s eyes flooded with tears, he blinked against them, then reached forward, but did not touch. He could not. 

“Easier than I expected,” the mercenary woman declared, pacing away a little and considering the Tal-Vashoth corpses too. “Call the men back!” Her command was bark. “We’ve got an appointment with the Viscount.” Her hand fell heavy and hard on Saemus’s shoulder and he reacted, shoving her off, hot tears spilling down his cheeks.

“Ashaad…you killed him! You… _vashedan_ bitch!” He had never used their words to curse before, but he was too far gone to really let it sink in. 

“That one of _their_ words?” the woman declared, unimpressed, reaching to haul him away from the body towards a few more of her men. “See that’s why you need to be dragged home. You’re playing too nice with those things.” Her look was cold. “I’ll wager you’ve gone even further than that, haven’t you, brat?” Saemus gave a sharp cry, trying to escape her grasp, but the woman’s grip held. Until, that was, there was a shout. 

The mage and the elf from before.

“Hey! Serrah Ginnis?! A little _rough_ for a rescue, don’t you think?!” the woman called. It took Saemus only a moment to realize the rescue was for him, no doubt sanctioned by his father or the Seneschal, with reward money for the person who brought him home. Serrah Ginnis, the mercenary, gave a scowl.

“You’re too late. The Winters – I – have already claimed him.” Saemus finally managed to yank himself free, tearing the seam of his collar in the process, and crawled back a little as the mage and the elf approached.

“Serrah, please,” he begged, eyes still stung with tears. “If I must go back, I would not see these murderers rewarded. _Please._ ” Serrah Ginnis gave a hiss.

“Spoiled shit! I’ll cut out your tongue and charge extra for bringing you back quiet.” Saemus gave another soft sob of fear as she tossed aside her bow and reached for her knives, stepping towards him. But a sharp ripple of force hit her first, shoving her back with magic, and the mage stepped up between them, halberd in hands, the elf at her side.

“Saemus, be a good boy and back up,” she said softly. Saemus did not need to be told twice. 

Serrah Ginnis was frightening with her knives, but the mage had just taken down an entire band of Tal-Vashoth, and a few mercenaries were hardly a match when one could batter the coast with fire and force. 

It was over before he had even managed to extricate himself from the tangled sobbing heap in which he found himself. By the time the fighting stopped, there were more people coming up the hill, this time not in the red mercenary coats, and not Tal-Vashoth either, but guardsmen, only two, the Guard Captain one of them. 

“Hawke!” she called, a little irritated. “I told you not to run off…” But whatever else she might have said was lost as her eyes fell on the slaughter before her, and then on Saemus, who had crawled back to Ashaad’s body to stare at the face of the man who had helped him find himself. 

Now, he was gone.

“You found him.” Not a question. More than a statement. Hawke – the mage – gave a small noise of agreement before making her way back to him. The Guard Captain grimaced. “How did you - ?” 

“Doesn’t matter,” was the reply. He realized that the woman did not want her magic known. She had used it because she had to, to help him, to save him. She sank down to a crouch beside him, and he looked up at her with wet eyes, giving another soft sob.

“Ashaad never lied,” he told her. “Never coddled. You were worth his time, or you were not…” His eyes were desperate. “They are not the brutes others claim they are!” He had to do something now. Serrah Ginnis was not the only one who believed that the Qunari were beasts or monsters. Half the Free Marches believed it. He knew his history. He knew of the Exalted Marches, of the Qunari conquests of Rivain, of Antiva, of Ostwick… he knew that people were frightened because of differences they did not understand. The Qunari were a stern people, but he had befriended one. He understood one, at least a little, and through him he had found a new purpose.

Serrah Hawke’s eyes were soft as she considered him. She glanced to Ashaad’s body a moment, then back to Saemus. 

“It’s clear this was not your first encounter with this…Ashaad,” she said gently. He shook his head, hot tears still on his cheeks.

“I met him soon after their ship foundered,” he told her, voice soft and thick with tears. “I had run…again…to escape the Keep and my father. Ashaad was to…map the coast, to…” How had he always put it? “Find an answer for the Arishok.” He bowed his head. “I had so many doubts. Qunari…have none.” 

He curled his hands into fists on his knees where he knelt in the dirt.

“I am the Viscount’s son, bound by everything that means. Ashaad… did not care.” He never had. Asit ta-leb. Those days spent wandering the coast, filling in the map he was making in the early days, asking questions and working out a language they might speak together, when Ashaad had known so little Common and Saemus no Qunlat. “We were…both seeking something,” he admitted. Serrah Hawke’s face was quiet, and then she gently reached forward to lay a hand on his shoulder. It had none of the firm cruel grasp Serrah Ginnis had used. It was gentle, consolatory. 

“I am not sure what one does with a dead Qunari, I confess,” she said softly. “Do we bury him?” He shook his head. 

“The body is no longer him, and is worthy of no special treatment,” he said softly, recalling what he had learned himself. “That is, apparently, their way.” 

“Someone will need to tell the Arishok,” came the heavier, flatter tones of the Guard Captain as she crossed to join them. The Tal-Vashoth were one thing, but Ashaad had been a true Qunari. Saemus just bowed his head.

“They will know. Whether they will deign to acknowledge it, I do not know. There was much of Ashaad that I didn’t understand, but it was so very worth trying.” He looked up then, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand. “But my father does not hear me. He is as tired of being disappointed as I am of bearing it.” He slowly rose then, and Serrah Hawke pushed herself up with him. He felt the heavy weight of purpose settle through him then. This was to be his task, to make them see. To make them understand. 

“Take me to my father?” he said softly but sternly, “And I will try again to make him see.” 

***

Viscount Dumar was an elderly man with bald hair, stress wrinkles, and no spine. As Seneschal Bran Cavin led them up the steps towards his personal offices, Sidonie avoided the stares of those in the vicinity. She had used her magic on the coast because she had no other choice, and Saemus had not shied from that. She hoped he would keep the secret, but it had been a risk she had been forced to take. When she had suggested to Fenris letting Aveline see to it Lia made it to the city while they went tracking Tal-Vashoth, she had not expected to find Saemus there as well. In truth she was not the world’s best tracker either, and had not even truly expected to encounter the Tal-Vashoth with such ease. 

Everything that had happened had been too quick. By the time Aveline had been able to return to them with another of her guardsmen in tow, the business had been done with, and the Winters too. She made a point to let Meeran know they had been tracking on his turf, before she remembered she no longer worked for him, officially. 

Well, if nothing else, she made a note to tell him anyway, so he might still think her loyal. There was protection in keeping a bargain, and Meeran had dirt on her too, after all.

She was no friend to Qunari, it was true. She didn’t really understand them, and had not tried. The one she had known in Lothering had killed an entire farmhold because he had lost a sword. But the way that Saemus spoke of Ashaad, was something she could, in a way, understand. She gritted her teeth as they were admitted into the Viscount’s personal office, and then loitered at the door as Saemus crossed the floor, dusty and tear-stained, to glare down at his father. Seneschal Bran and Aveline Vallen stood there with her. 

It was not pretty.

For what it was worth, the Viscount loved his son. Saemus had, as best Sidonie could recall from hearsay, been born after a great deal of loss for the Viscount, when the man had almost given up hope of having his own children entirely. The age difference was easy enough to see. Viscount Dumar was elderly, and Saemus still only young. His mother was nowhere to be found, dead she thought, giving birth, and Saemus was the only family the elderly man had left.

But elderly people were often stubborn, set in their ways and beliefs. And young people were malleable, undecided and working out their place in the world. Viscount Dumar had the pressures of a public office he had not really wanted, and a life he was not cut out for to contend with. Saemus had the weight of that too, in a way his father could not understand.

But when Marlowe Dumar stepped from around his desk to close the distance to his son, reaching out to touch his arm as if he might embrace him, there was love there, even if it was a harrowed, struggling sort. 

“My son, I thought I’d lost you.” Saemus recoiled from his touch though, and the moment was broken. His eyes went hard and hurt.

Seneschal Bran nudged Sidonie inside.

“Allow me to present Serrah Hawke, your Excellency. She fulfilled the bounty.” Sidonie narrowed her gaze at the wording, then drew a breath and gave a bow of head, a Fereldan sort of bow, not anything fancy. She had no airs and graces. Her mother would be mortified.

The Viscount did not seem particularly bothered by the lack of poise. Instead he gave her a soft look, like he were weighing up her character. 

“You have my gratitude,” he finally said. “I hope you encountered no great difficulties on my son’s behalf?” Sidonie glanced to Saemus, then raised her chin.

“Only the crowd that tried to kill us,” she said simply. Bran gave a low hiss behind her, but Sidonie did not care. This man should have sent Aveline and her guardsmen, not bounty hunters. This was making the personal matters very, very public. 

“I was told the Winters had involved themselves,” the Viscount admitted, expression wary. “Was there no way to avoid an incident?” Saemus stiffened at Sidonie’s side.

“They murdered my friend!” he insisted, bitter and angry. The Viscount met eyes that matched his own in looks but not in fire. “Where is the concern for that?” The Viscount’s look was cool.

“It was my understanding you were captured alone, foolishly traipsing about the coast as you do.” Saemus shook his head.

“I was not _captured_ he said fiercely. I was with Ashaad, the Qunari.” The ripple of disdain on the Viscount’s face did not go unnoticed. Sidonie shifted her weight as Saemus gritted his teeth. He was try. The boy was trying. She would give him that at least. “They are not monsters to be feared. If you would just try to understand, others would see as well.” Viscount Dumar just shook his head.

His position was difficult. He had been made Viscount by the Chantry and the Templars. He held to power only if they held theirs. The Qunari and the Chantry were not friends, and never would be, not with the history of the Exalted Marches behind them. Dumar could hardly sanction the Qunari when his backing was from the Chantry itself. But neither could he afford an escalating war, and even Sidonie could see that the tensions within the city were not simply going to go away. 

“Better you were thought abducted than their influence be suspected in my own family,” the Viscount said curtly before turning his attention back to Sidonie. 

“Now, what was the reward on the bounty you are owed, Serrah?” 

“Five sovereigns,” Seneschal Bran said simply. “I can handle matters.” 

“I had a request, actually,” Sidonie said, taking her chance. She considered the Senechal before the Viscount gave her a nod to continue. “My mother, Lady Leandra Amell, has been seeking an audience with you, your Excellency. If you might be able to arrange to speak with her, as a reward for my assistance, I would be most grateful.” For a moment there was silence as Dumar pondered the implications, but then he drew a slow breath.

“Your grandfather was almost voted Viscount in my place you know,” he said simply, and then gave a nod. “So be it, Serrah Hawke. Bran, determine a time I might meet with Lady Amell.” 

Sidonie gave a small smile and a little nod, and then retreated with a small bow and a quiet farewell. Bran, eager to see her gone, hurried her out and shut the door in their wake, leaving Saemus to contend with his father alone. In moments the shouting had started. 

But Sidonie let that be, and Aveline drew in alongside her as the Seneschal disappeared a moment into his own office to see to the reward. When he emerged, it was with a small purse of sovereigns.

“Not enough,” Sidonie said softly, and at that accusation, Bran’s expression drew wild. 

“Excuse me?” he said sharply. Sidonie just glanced to Aveline.

“Payment,” the Guard Captain agreed, “for helping to contend with the dangerous escaped prisoner.” 

“And is that prisoner back in custody?” Seneschal Bran pushed, expression viscious and cold.

“No,” Sidonie said, simply. She was not going to lie about that. But she had promised not to tell Aveline what she had done. “He was killed in the caves.” Bran gave a low hiss.

“Why should we provide compensation for you then?” he said flatly. Aveline narrowed her eyes. She believed in earning pay for hard work, for the merits of that alone. Sidonie’s eyes narrowed further.

“Because if you do not pay me, I will implicate the Magistrate in a cover-up, and take this to someone with authority.” She did not mean the Viscount then. Bran just gritted his teeth before digging into his own purse and pressing a further two sovereigns into his hand. 

“For your silence,” he said simply. Sidonie gave him a quiet look, then took it and deposited it in the pouch with the rest before tucking it away. 

“A pleasure doing business,” she said simply before turning away. 

“Indeed,” Bran replied, but his voice was sarcastic and cold. Sidonie ignored it and made her way down the steps with a sigh, and Aveline followed in tow. At the foot, Fenris stood, expression quiet, arms crossed. 

“And?” he said simply. 

“And paid,” Sidonie reported. “Now it’s only the matter of the Tal-Vashoth, but that…that will involve a bit more luck and tact.” She had no head for business. No. For that she would need Varric. “Fancy a drink at the Hanged Man? For once, I think I’ll pay.” Fenris quirked an odd look at her, and then at Aveline who gave a soft sigh and a nod.

“Alright, Hawke,” Aveline finally said, but her eyes were simple and easy. “But I think this time, _I’ll_ pay.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver makes contact with Ser Emeric and finds that the case of the missing woman is more complicated than it first appeared; a deeper investigation leads Carver to conclude that blood magic is involved in the disappearances; Sidonie, Varric, and Fenris come face to face with the Arishok; Carver pays a visit to Merrill looking for leads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all my supporters and readers. Comments always welcome.  
> Please find me on [Tumblr](http://higheverrains.tumblr.com) for more.
> 
> WARNINGS: Gore, Violence

Darktown was as dark and dingy as ever. Carver made his way through the slums of people inhabiting the old sewer systems and mining tunnels, ignoring people trying to pitch their fenced wares and bogus cure-alls, and giving Anders’s clinic a wide berth. At his side, Isabela was attracting stares, but they had not run into too much trouble yet, with Varric leading the way through the mire with his head held high that spoke to his connections to the Coterie and possibly the Carta.

Carver didn’t like the criminal aspects of the work, and he was not entirely sure just how legitmate much of Varric’s work was, but he was also in no position to really comment on that, and with Varric and Isabela the only help he had for the moment, there was work to be done. 

What little he knew of Ninette’s disappearance was disconcerting. From the white lilies she had received at her husband’s house, to her obvious and known affairs, none of this added up to a disappearance into Darktown. A woman like Ninette de Carrac had friends, had allies. She wasn’t alone. She shouldn’t have been a target. And there was no real reason why the Templars of all people should be the ones trying to find her. 

They cut through Darktown proper, following a lead Varric had found that pointed further into the sewer system in the lower levels carved by Tevinter some time ago. Lanterns splashed pools of light upon the carven stone corridors, things that were both bright and dim at once. The air was thick with dust from the quarries, and the stench of unwashed bodies and filth. The light cut through it in a greasy sheen that set the corridors to dim glows. 

In the distance, there was the muffled sound of someone speaking. Varric narrowed his gaze before reaching for Bianca, and Isabela slowly did the same, drawing her knives as Carver watched in silence. At his back, Donnic gave a wary look.

“Cutthroats?” he asked. Varric shook his head.

“Carta,” he said.

“Same difference,” was Carver’s reply. There was more than just the Carta though. There was also Ser Emeric, and as Carver and his gang rounded the corner, he realized how the situation stood.

“This is _our_ territory,” the Carta gang’s leader was saying with a voice like ice. “We don’t want no Templars.” 

It did briefly occur to Carver to let them have the man. One less Templar meant one less to threaten Sidonie, and a part of him did want to see that threat minimized. But at the same time he knew that this was about an investigation, and Donnic was there, and Emeric had information about Ninette de Carrac that Carver needed if he was going to find her. So he reached to draw his sword, and heard the creak of Varric loading Bianca, and before he knew it they were neck deep in the fight.

In truth it was a small skirmish compared to much of the fighting that Carver had done for Meeran, and Isabela and Varric were not new to getting their hands dirty either. Donnic finished off the last of them, and then Carver wiped his blade clean. No one would miss a few Carta thugs, and Donnic might put in a good word with Aveline with him.

Emeric was old, with silver hair and quiet, tired eyes. His face was lined with age. Donnic helped him rise from where he had been on his knees, and then Carver closed the distance. Emeric’s gaze fixed on him.

“I thank you, Serrah, for coming along when you did,” he said softly in a voice gentle and soft.

“You’re Ser Emeric,” Carver said softly.

“You’re older than I thought you’d be,” Isabela remarked, joining them after cleaning off her knives and sliding them back into their sheathes. “Ninette seems to go for the young, pointy-eared sorts.” Emeric looked between them, confused.

“What?”

“Ghislain de Carrac’s wife, Ninette,” Donnic said softly, taking a step back once he was sure that Emeric was just fine. “You were asking about her.” Emeric’s confusion eased a little and he drew a small breath.

“Ah, yes. Her disappearance interested me. I tried looking into it. However, the investigation has been a waste of time. I was eager at first, but failure has leached all enthusiasm from me.” His face was no mask of warmth anymore. It had gone hard and frustrated. “This all started when Mharen, one of our Circle Mages, disappeared. I found it odd. She was a bit older, and hardly adventurous. Then I heard about Ninette and two other missing women.” Carver crossed his arms. Beside him, Donnic gave a quiet sigh.

“And you have doubts they merely fled,” he filled in the blanks. Emeric gave a little nod. Isabela’s smile was gone now. It was serious and solemn.

“A woman goes missing and you’ll either never find her, or you’ll just find her body,” she said coldly. There was fire in her amber eyes.

“I hope you’re wrong, madame,” Emeric said, and that made Carver like him a little more. At least he had not given up entirely. He drew a breath, then shifted his weight. Emeric glanced among them. “I think the disappearances are connected,” he announced. “And I suspect foul play is involved.” It was what Carver had been afraid of, in truth, not because he could not handle it but because he had been hoping for something easier, and this…this was not easy. He gave a sullen little sigh, then closed his eyes a moment, thinking. Varric at his side gave a low hum.

“Doesn’t the Circle use phylacteries to keep track of its mages?” Carver asked. He was no expert, but he knew that much at least. Emeric gave a quiet sigh. 

“We followed Mharen’s phylactery to a foundry but found nothing. I had heard of sympathizers smuggling mages through Darktown, so came here hoping to pick up the trail, but found no trace of Mharen, and as you’ve seen asking the locals hasn’t made me very popular.” 

“Perhaps Mharen just wanted freedom,” Varric suggested. Emeric shook his head.

“She had always been loyal,” he reported. “She received lilies from an unknown suitor, and some of us thought she may have gone to meet him. Perhaps her disappearance is linked.”

“White lilies…” Carver gave a low hiss. “Same as Ninette.” Emeric gave a nod at that as well.

“Two bunches of flowers is not proof these disappearances are connected,” Donnic said softly. “Strange, but not a pattern. Not yet. White lilies are in season this time of year.” Carver gave him a flat look. Isabela’s was full of venom. 

“People don’t just disappear,” she said in an irritated tone. “They may have been murdered or kidnapped.” 

“We found no bodies,” Emeric told her, “no ransom notes. Those women just vanished.” 

“I don’t like the sound of this,” Carver said. He turned back to the steps, motioning for Emeric to follow them. They could at least see the man out of Darktown, since it was clear they were not getting any further leads down there. 

“Neither do I, Serrah,” Emeric agreed, turning to follow.

As they climbed the steps, Varric’s presence once again deterring those that might stop them, Emeric turned his gaze on Carver, surveying him with quiet eyes.

“You seem a capable lad,” he said after a moment. “How did you wind up here doing work with a Guardsman, a pirate, and a dwarf?” Carver heaved a sigh.

“It is…a long story, Serrah.”

“Are you with the City Guard, then?” Emeric asked, his pace a little slower than Carver was used to as they navigated the Darktown slum markets towards the steps to Lowtown again. Carver just gave a little shake of head at that, feeling a bit bitter that he had to spell it out.

“They…wouldn’t take me. Not…good at following orders.”

“But good initiative,” Emeric said quietly, pointedly. “Sometimes we need those who question.” He reached the bottom of the steps before giving him a thoughtful look. “Do you really intend to continue this search for Ninette de Carrac?” Carver gave him a nod. Emeric wet his lips before reaching into the padding of his armor on the side of his breastplate and drawing forth a few notes, papers with a scraled handwriting, presumably his own.

“This little skirmish showed that I am no longer the warrior I used to be. I know when to walk away, boy, and leave this in better hands.” He held out the paper, and Carver gave it a quiet look, then a shake of head.

“You can’t just give up.” Emeric shook his head.

“I have done all I can for Mharen, Ninette, and the other two women. Take my findings. Perhaps _you_ can make more use of them. I have no other ideas.” He turned back to the steps then, and Carver peered at the papers in his hands. Then he climbed up towards the surface, and as they emerged into the light of the sun, Emeric paused again to blink into the light before pointed into Lowtown. “The foundry was that way, if you care to look for yourself. As for the rest, I will be in the Gallows if you work out more.” He glanced to him. “You may not have had the makings of a City Guardsman,” he added, “but there are other options open to you, other places that need people with zeal like yours. You are young, and strong, trained. I saw the way you wielded that sword. That was no guardsman training.” It took Carver a minute to realize just what Emeric was saying. His eyes went wide at the suggestion, and for a moment he just froze. Emeric did not give him time to recover. He just gave a quiet little smile, patted him on the shoulder, and then nodded.

“Think on it,” he said simply. “We will always have need of men like you.” He let his hand fall and then took a step back. “Good look in the search,” he said, and then turned away making his way towards the docks and the boats that would take him across to the Gallows. 

That left Carver standing there, baffled. Donnic drew up alongside him. 

“Might be a good offer,” he said after a moment. “Something to consider at least?” And then he nudged him towards the foundry district. “Come on. Let’s go have a look at the place they last saw Mharen. We might have better luck than the old man.” Carver gave the Templar’s retreating back a single look, then drew a breath, thinking a moment to himself of old letters, his namesake, and the insinuation. 

And then he pushed the idea away, buried it deep inside, determined not to think of it. It did not occur to him that thoughts pushed down were much like seeds, left in the dark beneath the soil, and that with enough water, with enough encouragement, and with enough time, they could grow into mighty trees. Instead he turned towards the foundries.

“Yeah. Maybe we will.”

***

In the daytime the foundries belched smoke, though with the end of the Blight and the recent difficulties in the Bonepit, several were not operational, and stood vacant and empty. Carver was expecting squatters, or perhaps some sort of Carta operation, but in truth the one listed in Emeric’s notes – once they had found the number – proved to be nearly abandoned. 

Nearly being the operative word. 

As Donnic held the door for Isabela, Carver peered into the gloom of the forges, eyes narrowed. He knew nothing of blacksmithing, smelting metal, or anything else. All he knew was Kirkwall made good weapons, and its mines provided good ore, but this was not where that occurred.

Half the smelters were cold, the other half barely burning with low pools of heat that had yet to die. The place had been shut down in a hurry, and bits and pieces of what had once been a productive facility remained, boxes stacked in the corner, though by now their contents had been thoroughly raided and resold on the black market, no doubt. The place held the weird echo of timeless places that never quite died, and it put Carver on edge, enough so that his heightened senses caught the feeling that someone was watching them even before he had words for that very same feeling. He eyes narrowed, and he gritted his teeth, freezing, before his vision tracked along to the walkways above.

There, in the shadows, a figure, which, upon being seen, darted into the depths of the foundry. Carver reached for his sword.

“There! Did you see!?” he called.

“We saw.” Isabela was already charging in, and Varric had nocked Bianca for another fight. Donnic hurried up the steps.

But the man was gone. 

What they found instead, in one of the back chambers, was a satchel and a slew of demons.

“Why,” Carver said through gritted teeth, slamming his sword through the belly of a demon, “does everything we do have to involve magic?!” He took the head from a shade, and then stared as a crossbow bold from Bianca almost shot through his nose before catching another shade in the eye. The demon vanished, the bolt clattered to the floor, and he gave Varric a dark look.

At this point, he was not entirely surprised if there was magic involved. A Circle Mage had gone missing in the building, and Templars were looking for her. Carver wondered if perhaps he should not take Emeric up on that offer after all, what with the amount of magical business he got involved in. He may as well get paid to control such things. 

But with the demons cleared he sheathed his sword at his back again and then reached to gather up the satchel. It clacked as he lifted it from the floor. That made him very nervous. 

Within, he found bones, a jumbled mixture, and a few odd personal items, including a ring that bore a noble sigil. He froze, staring at the satchel, and then glared up about the chamber. 

“Where did they go?” he demanded. “Search the chambers. They _have_ to _be_ here. There’s only one way in or out!” The others split then, but their search turned up nothing, and there were other ways out, high windows and a back door. Carver, irritated at the turn of events, clenched a fist around the top of the sack. His eyes fell at last on Donnic.

“Don’t tell me these aren’t connected,” he said fiercely. “Not anymore. No. There are murders here. And you will see to it Aveline looks into them, do you understand?” He had wanted to be a soldier, and he had been a good one. He had wanted to be a guard, but they would not let him. But this…this he could do. He could still protect people. He could still try. There was a killer on the loose. But he would help to stop them. 

But now the guard really did need to get properly involved. 

There was more, as well, and he knew it, but it was Varric who finally pointed it out.

“There’s demons here, Little Hawke. You know what that means.” 

“Yes, Varric. I know what that means.” His voice was curt and cold and snapped. He did not mean to sound so petulant and angry, but he did know what that meant. Blood magic. Varric gave a sigh. “I’m just saying, there’s only one person we know who has much experience with this sort of thing.” He knew just what he was speaking about too. Carver gave a low growl, then shook his head. 

“No.” He would not do it. The whole idea made him incredibly nervous. He shook his head, but Varric gave a little shake of head.

“Go see her,” he said simply. “Maybe she knows something else about this. She can help find those other women before the same happens to them.” 

He was right, Carver knew. They really only knew one blood mage who might have insight into demons and any ability to speak to what might be happening there. The Templars had failed, the guard had failed, both Circle Mages and noblewomen were missing. He should ask. Finally, finally, he relented. He would go and speak to Merrill.

“Fine,” he said softly. “I’ll go. But first, I need to take these to Emeric, and speak with Ninette de Carrac’s husband.” He peered at the ring still in his hand. “I’m almost positive this is hers.” 

Donnic gave a low sigh, then gave him a quiet nod. “I’ll see about getting a contingent of men to do a more thorough search of the foundry. If there’s anything else to be found, we _will_ find it.” Carver only wished he shared his confidence.

He went to the Gallows first, because at least Emeric had tried and he remembered Ghislain de Carrac had been more concerned for his reputation than his wife, parting ways with Isabela and Varric, the second of which went to the Keep in search of additional guardsmen for Donnic. Emeric was lingering in the Gallows courtyard, watching a few recruits training, when Carver made port on one of the small flat-bottomed barges that made the journey between there and the docks. 

Being back in the place was always strange and imposing. It was hard for him to picture his father ever living in such a place, behind the bars. It felt foreign and awkward. Emeric himself looked up at the approach, recognizing him, and as Carver skirted the training recruits, he gave a solemn look to the satchel in Carver’s hands. 

“What is - ?” Carver gave him a quiet look, handing the satchel over. He could open it himself. “These are human bones,” Emeric said, voice low and shocked, and he closed the satchel up tight again in a hurry. Carver’s look in turn was cold.

“Found the foundry. I was also attacked by shades.” Emeric’s expression was grim. He did not seem terribly surprised, so much as frustrated and tired, a man who had seen too much. The fact he could pinpoint human bones in a sack was enough proof of that. 

“I admit I had hoped when this began we might still find them alive.” Carver glanced away across the courtyard as Emeric wandered a little beyond the training recruits for privacy.

“This isn’t over,” he replied. “I’m going to get the bastard that did this. Guardsman Donnic is launching a full investigation into that foundry, and the Guard Captain will be made fully aware of the situation. It was she herself who asked me to continue looking into this.” He gave a sigh, then considered the recruits training across the yard. Emeric caught the look in his eye and gave a quiet sigh.

“I will take these bones to the City Guard at the Keep,” he said softly, as well as any information I have, and work with this Guardsman Donnic to see if more can be done. This satchel cannot be all that remains.” Then he gave a quiet shake of head. “If you ever decide, Serrah, that running errands for the guard is not the life you want, it is never too late.” 

“I don’t think so,” Carver said hurriedly, but the words came out halfhearted. He gave a quiet sigh. “Excuse me, Ser Emeric. I have…I have words to exchange with Ghislain de Carrac.” Emeric backed off, giving a bow of head.

“Of course.” 

“If I hear more, I will come and find you.” 

“What is your name, Serrah? I did not catch it.” 

Carver considered a moment, his eyes quiet, and then he said, in a quiet voice:

“Hawke. My name is Carver Hawke.”

***

“Varric! I wasn’t expecting to see you here!” Varric turned at the sound of Sidonie descending the Keep steps in the company of the Guard Captain and the broody elf, and gave a quiet smile. Guardsman Brennan, leading a small compliment to assist Donnic down at the foundry, froze at the sight of Aveline, her look tired.

“Guard Captain.”

Sidonie was in a bright mood, but Aveline looked perturbed beside her.

“What’s this? What is happening?”

“We’ve had some results regarding Ninette de Carrac and the Templar Ser Emeric,” Varric explained, catching them up on the details as quickly and quietly as he could. As he did so, Sidonie’s smile slipped. Brennan glanced between him and Aveline before the Guard Captain sighed. 

“Sorry Hawke. I should see to this personally. I’ll take a rain check on that drink.” She dug into her pockets though, and pressed a few gold sovereigns into her hands. “That’s for Carver. With my thanks.” Sidonie just gave a quiet nod, and then let her go, and Aveline and her guards set off deliberately towards the steps, Aveline in fierce discussion with Brennan about what precisely she had missed. 

That left Sidonie and Fenris on the steps with Varric. For a moment there was a quiet silence, and then Sidonie gave a sigh before catching Varric up on her own news.

“What a day,” she said softly. “I was hoping to end it on a high note.” Varric gave a little shrug.

“Things seem to have gone well enough for you. Saving the Viscount’s son? From not only mercenaries but also Tal-Vashoth.”

“About that.” She brushed past him towards the Lowtown steps, expression a little concerned. “Think you can help come to some deal with these Qunari? I don’t expect this dwarf to hold to his word, the way he went on about it.” Varric gave a small smirk at that.

“Are you asking me for my business skills, Hawke? I’d be honored.” She gave a weak smile.

“Good. Because I have no idea how to handle the Qunari.” Varric gave an amused little look.

“Neither,” he said, “do I.” 

But that did not mean he was not determined to try anyway. So off they went, down the steps towards the docks where the Qunari Compound stood, guarded by a few of the imposing men themselves. 

Javaris Tintop had not necessarily been expecting them to have done with the business so soon, if at all. They found him down at the harbormaster’s, arguing over some cargo he wanted shipping, and at the sight of them his first reaction was sheer confusion. When the approached him, he grew even more alarmed. 

“Yes? What is it?” he demanded. “Did you do as I asked?” Sidonie exchanged a look with Varric, who gave a grim little nod.

“Oh yes, they did. Saved the Viscount’s son from an entire band of the Tal-Vashoth out on the coast, so they’re telling it in Hightown, in case that story needs corroborating.” Javaris gave a sniff at the news, then a grimace.

“Fine, fine, we can go speak to the gate guard. The Arishok knows to expect me, so we should have no problem getting this deal going.” 

“Hold up,” Varric said simply. “This isn’t going anywhere until you tell us the cut.” Javaris hesitated, and for a moment Varric was certain he was going to cut a runner. But he flashed the Merchants Guild smile, and the man gave a soft sigh.

“Alright, alright. I’ll give you two.” 

“For blackpowder? Are you joking? They dealt with an entire Tal-Vashoth band.” 

“Three then.” 

“I want ten,” Sidonie said behind him, and Varric gave a little smile. Javaris’s eyes went wide. 

“Ten?! You must be joking! It’s worth five, if that!” Varric gave a nod.

“Done. Five it is,” he said simply, then put out an arm towards the Qunari Compound before Javaris could protest. “Shall we?” 

“I…sod it. Fine. Five.” He stalked past them, muttering to himself, and Sidonie gave a quiet nod.

“Thanks, Varric,” she said simply. He gave a little smile.

“Anytime, Hawke.”

The Qunari Compound was sealed by a gate, where a man stood guard with crossed arms and the traditional Qunari scowl fixed permanently on his face. Varric let Javaris do the explaining, in rather unhelpful stutters, unwilling to assist the other man. In truth he was not entirely convinced this deal was even real. He had never in his life heard of Qunari trying to sell their goods before. But they were trapped there, and presumably running short on funds themselves, so that meant they might be more willing to. All the same, it felt…strange. So he held to the five sovereign deal, prepared to back it up with Merchant’s Guild muscle if need be. 

Javaris Tintop was not doing business without the sanction of either the Merchant’s Guild or the Coterie. Luckily, Varric was big in with both. Javaris knew it, from that smile. Man would be lucky if he managed to do business anywhere in Kirkwall again if he shirked them on the arrangements now. Bartrand was the Deshyr of Kirkwall, the ruling house of the city, and Varric his heir to that title. Kirkwall was the formal seat of the Merchant’s Guild itself. If he wanted, Varric could screw over the business interests of any man in Thedas for stepping wrong. 

He hoped he didn’t have to. He preferred avoiding such unpleasantness. But he had a soft spot for Hawke, and her interests, and he needed that money too. After all, it was going to be put towards the Tethras expedition.

They were at last admitted into the compound, which looked much like the rest of Kirkwall with the odd smattering of Qunari furnishings here and there. Some fo the warehouses were being used as makeshift homes, but much of the activity was occurring outside. Javaras, a little more embolded by being admitted through the gate at all, led them towards a set of steps. Atop them stood the most fearsome Qunari that Varric had ever seen. Granted, he had not seen many, but this one was a cut above the rest.

He had several twisting horns, and earrings of beaten gold. He wore thick, leather armor. His eyes were dark and cold. He surveyed them from a seat draped in Qunari insignia on red fabric, seemingly unimpressed.

For a moment no one said anything. And then, surprises of surprises, Fenris stepped forward. Varric narrowed a gaze at the broody elf, uncertain what he was planning on doing. And then the damn man actually spoke to the Arishok, in Qunlat.

“ _Arishokost, maaras shokra. Inan isaam Qun_ ,” he said simply, waving a hand in greeting. Sidonie was staring. Varric realized he was too. Javaris sputtered a moment and then went to speak, but the Arishok himself cut him off.

“The Qun from an elf?” he boomed, voice low and deep, thick with irony. “The madness of this…place.” His Common was a little slow but easy enough to understand, and flawless in its presentation. Varric felt a flicker of wariness. Sidonie leveled Fenris with a raised-brow look.

“Friend of yours?” she asked. There was an almost smug little look to Fenris’s face then.

“Friend of no one,” he replied softly. Javaris recovered first.

“Yes. Well. That said, I’m here to report that your hated Tal-Vashoth were felled, one and all,” he said simply. “Right? Yes, they were.” His eyes slid to Sidonie a moment, and she gave him a glare. Varric shifted his weight and wondered whether he was going to need Bianca for these negotiations after all. 

“So,” Javaris continued, awkwardly. “I’m ready to open negotiations for the explosive powder, as we agreed.” The Arishok stared down on all of them a moment before gave a simple reply.

“No.”

Ah good. So Javaris was in over his head, as Varric had thought. Fenris took stock of the situation before stepping forward a little again.

“Qunari do not abandon a debt,” he said softly before elevating the volume of his voice for the Arishok. “I humbly request clarification from the Arishok.” The horned creature atop the throne raised an eyebrow.

“I have a growing lack of disgust for you,” he admitted, almost surprised at himself. And he did indeed explain. “The dwarf imagined the deal for the gaatlok. He invented a task to prove his worth when he has none.” Well, shit.

“Then we have wrongly inserted ourselves in your affairs,” Fenris said, soft and apologetic. Varric watched him, curious at the display. He had not seen Fenris so…meek before. Such a scripted display of obeisance was strange from a man who regularly yanked the beating hearts from the chests of his enemies. But then he rectified that with a very simple statement. “Would you have us kill this dwarf?” 

“Hold up,” Varric said hurriedly.

“What now?” Javaris demanded, his eyes going wide in alarm. He took a step back, glancing between Fenris and the Arishok. Sidonie shifted so he could not turn and flee.

“If you faced Tal-Vashoth,” the Arishok said, “he is not worthy of dying to you, as he was not worthy of dying to them.” That saved Javaris, for now, but it did not make the deal any easier. At this rate, Varric was going to have to draw what he could from Javaris by threats alone. They had kept faith. The other dwarf had not. “But you.” The Arishok’s gaze turned to Sidonie then. “You keep good company. Let him live, and leave.” If Fenris was good company, Varric was a elf. He sighed, then glanced Javaris with a quiet disdain. 

“I did his dirty work,” Sidonie said suddenly, expression equally annoyed. “ _That_ debt stands.” It did. Varric meant to capitalize on it. But it seemed the Arishok himself agreed. His eyes narrowed and he leaned forward in his seat.

“Does it, dwarf?” Javaris glared between them then.

“You said yourself there was no bargain!” he insisted. “I’m not getting a sodding thing out of this.” 

“Little shit,” Varric hissed. Sidonie and Fenris both angled a bit more towards Javaris then, and the Arishok rose imposingly from his seat to tower over them all the more. The soldiers flanking his throne shifted as well, and one of them hoisted his spear up over his shoulder.

“This human did what you could not,” the Arishok finally said, motioning to Sidonie. “Something I do not expect of any outsider. I have heard tell that you engaged in battle alongside one of the Ashaad on the coast.” So he knew then. Of course he knew. “And you,” cold eyes slid back to Javaris, “have involved _me_. If you made a bargain for the Tal-Vashoth, that debt for their lives _will_ be honored.”

It was imposing enough that Javaris gave in, tossing his hands in the air and then raking one through his hair before reaching to dig the money from the pouch at his belt and shoving it rather roughly at Sidonie. 

“Sod it all, take you coin, whatever,” he hissed, and Sidonie caught it, before Javaris shoved his way past her, skulking towards the gate, muttering to himself. “Hardheaded oxmen and mongrel doglords. Suck you own powder and blow your heads off, sod it…”

“There. Done. Time to go, before things turn poor,” Varric said simply, eyes catching Sidonie’s. 

“You will leave as well, human,” the Arishok affirmed. “There’s no more coin for you here.” At that Varric was more than happy to oblige. He drew back, giving a nod of head, as the Arishok sank back into his seat, and then he abruptly turned, glad to find that Sidonie and Fenris were keeping pace. 

When they finally reached the edge of the compound, only then did he release his breath.

“That was tense.” 

“Yes,” Fenris agreed.

“But worth it,” Sidonie said. She gave a small smile, considering the coins she had gathered. “That’s more money than I’ve made in an entire year here, all in one day. Plus Carver’s.” She pocketed it with the rest, looking more satisfied than he had ever seen her. “And now we’ve got mother an interview with the Viscount and some connections with the Seneschal and the guards, maybe we can come up with more work soon.” She ws hoping for that, he knew, and gave a hopeful little smile.

“Come on,” he said with a smile. “I stole you away from drinks earlier, but I think we’re all due for some now. Fancy something from the Hanged Man. On my tab today, Hawke.” She gave a warm little smile, and then a soft nod.

“Yes,” she said, and for the first time in a long time he realized she really truly meant it. “Don’t mind if I do.”

***

The little house was small. The moment he entered the Alienage, he knew he was going to get stares, but he was not even entirely sure he would fit through the door as it were right there. He considered it a moment, wondering if he should not just turn back, turn away and see to it that all this business was ended. But then he thought of Mharen and Ninette, of that gruesome parcel, and knew he could not. 

So he quietly knocked at the door. 

There was no answer. He stood for long enough he started to feel both silly and worried, before finally knocking again.

“Mythal’enaste, what is that sound?!” he heard from within. That, if nothing else, coaxed a smile. Of course she didn’t understand knocking. She was brand new to the city, and she had likely never even had a door before. So he slowly tested the handle and quietly let it creak open, calling in instead.

“Hello?”

“Carver!” She appeared at the door moments later, and swung it wide open to admit him. “Aneth Ara! Come in!” She got out of the way then, retreating back into a house that was arguably larger and better appointed than Gamlen’s little shack. He didn’t hold that against her. This was one of Varric’s properties, he knew. Instead he glanced around, considering the random assortment of thing she already collected: a few books, some in strange text he could not read, others in the Common tongue but detailing different Dalish historical events. There was a ball of string as well – “Varric gave me that so I wouldn’t get lost” – and a few knickknacks taken from the aravels when she had left. She had some furniture, a small table with some chairs, and a desk as well, and a real bed sitting in the other room, though there was no door there. He looked about and gave a small smile.

“It’s nice to see you’re settling in,” he said after a moment, unsure what else he could say. She smiled at that, shifting some books from a chair to make room for him to sit down.

“This city is _amazing_ ,” she said, depositing the stack atop her desk instead. “Do you know I saw someone get mugged? Right outside! It was fascinating.” He blinked, concerned.

“Someone is jumped outside your door and that’s exciting?” he asked her weakly. She gave a wide grin and then nudged him towards the seat, which he took out of obligation if nothing else.

“It must be Alienage greeting,” she declared, as if that made any amount of sense. “Hasn’t happened to me yet though. They must not like me.” He gave a soft sigh, then settled, watching as she took the other seat. “It’s so busy here. So many things just get…lost.” 

She looked so small, sitting there in the chair, that for a moment he almost forgot she was a demon-summoning blood mage cast out of her clan. 

“It lets apostates like you slip through the cracks though,” he pointed out. She nodded.

“I’m certainly not complaining. I’d be cut down on the spot if the Templars knew what I was,” but there was a quiet wistfulness to her voice. “I’m glad _you_ came by though. I needed someone to talk to.” Then she hesitated a little. “Why _did_ you come by though? I thought after…well…” 

“I have a question,” he finally said after a moment’s pause. “I’ve been looking into the disappearance of some women, and have reason to believe that someone involved in demon summoning and blood magic is to blame.” She gave him a quiet look, eyes a little wary then.

“It isn’t me. I can’t even find my way around without Varric’s ball of string.”

“No,” he agreed. “Not you. But I wondered if you might…well…I don’t exactly know anyone else who happens to have any information on what this person might be doing.” She gave a soft sigh, looking away a moment, and then nodded.

“I’ll do what I can,” she told him. “But it might not be much.” 

“Four women have gone missing so far, at least one a mage, and one of the others a noblewoman. We found…bones, but nothing else, and one of their rings.” He sighed. “The disappearances are connected. All of them are women in the same sort of age range, a bit on the older side, not known as the type that would run off.” 

“If you found bones then they’re not raising them as undead,” Merrill said quietly, worried. But then she gave a soft sigh. “In truth it isn’t much to go on. But all magic is done for a purpose. Magic is a means to an end. If you can work out the end, how they all connect, then you might be able to stop him. I’m afraid I can’t help much more without more information.” He gave a soft sigh, then a quiet thank you, letting the matter drop for now, clear there was not really anything else she could give.

For a moment they just sat there, and then Merrill’s soft voice said again:

“Carver, thank you for coming to see me. It can get a bit…lonely here sometimes.” He gave her a quiet look at that, and then a little nod.

“I know.” 

“Do you think…do you think the others would let me come with them next time you visited the Hanged Man?” she said softly. He gave her a quiet look, then a soft sigh. For all it was dangerous, and he knew it damn well, there was a softness to her. 

“No blood magic,” he said softly.

“Of course not.”

“And no…demons…”

“No,” she agreed. He gave it another moment’s thought before finally drawing a breath and fixing her with a look, blue gaze meeting hers.

“Alright,” he said softly. “Next time we go, I’ll come and get you.” She gave a quiet smile at that. “You’d probably enjoy meeting Isabela in any case.” 

“Who is Isabela?” she asked him, eyes wide and unsuspecting. Carver gave a quiet laugh.

“Oh, just…a woman you have to see to believe.” He left it at that, slowly pushing his way up. She bit at her lip, watching him.

“Carver? Do you like it here?” she asked suddenly. He thought a moment before finally glancing away.

“No. But it doesn’t really matter.” She was silent a moment then before rising herself.

“No,” she agreed. “I don’t suppose it does.” She watched him move towards the door then, and gave a little sigh. “I hope though,” she added as he reached for the handle, “that one day both of us find something here to like.” He paused then, before quietly looking back over his shoulder.

“Me too, Merrill. Me too.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver and Merrill get wind of another disappearance; Sidonie and Carver explain their plans for the Expedition to Leandra; Carver and Sidonie track down the merchant Vincento and realize they'll need more help; Nathaniel and Sigrun puzzle out more of the Amgarrak mystery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence, gore
> 
> Comments always welcome!
> 
> Enjoying this story. Check out my tumblr for lore, theory, videos, and more writing: http://higheverrains.tumblr.com.

His conversation with Merrill turned out less productive but more cathartic than he would have thought, given just who he was speaking to. He certainly did not condone anything Merrill was up to. He didn’t understand a great deal of it, and she seemed reckless and a bit in over her head without realizing it. But he did appreciate her attempts to answer his questions, and it was nice for once just to speak to someone who remembered Ferelden fondly. It had been home, after all. 

But all the same, he did not tarry in the doorway. He said his farewells and then opened the door. 

Right onto the sight of a group of Templars, one right in the center of the Alienage, the others atop the steps surveying them all. The nearest was standing across the Alienage square, deep in discussion with another elven woman. Carver ducked his head back inside the door, hurriedly closed it, keeping quiet, and then glanced back to Merrill a moment with wide eyes. Was the man here for her? He leveled her with a wary look.

“You haven’t been doing any…magic…things, have you?” He asked. The wariness in his tone, the panic in his voice…he tried to smooth both away, recalling all the times this had happened before now. It had always been he or his father who opened the door, protecting Bethany and Sidonie and the family. Now…now it was someone different. But there was a frightened look in Merrill’s eyes at his panic that stung of Bethany, and he felt the weight of that hit him harder than he might have expected.

“Of course not!” she said in a low voice. “I’m not stupid, Carver.” He sighed, then drew a slow breath, hesitating. 

“Stay here. If anyone knocks, pretend you’re not home. I’ll call when it’s safe,” he said, and then cracked the door open and slid out into the square, heart pounding.

It was different, of course. Merrill was not his sister. She knew enough she could cause them trouble if she wanted, though, and the old patterns were his fallback. He shut the door carefully in his wake.

The Templar was a middle-aged man with a shock of auburn hair hanging down to the gorget at his neck over the Sword of Mercy emblazoned on his breastplate. Carver skirted him slowly, listening in, aware that a human in the Alienage was hardly going to go unnoticed for long. A few of the shopkeepers were already staring as they finished up the end of day. Carver gave an uncomfortable little look.

But the Templar was not there for Merrill. The woman was speaking in urgent tones, and it was clear from the way her inflections rose and fell that she was incredibly concerned.

“Please, Ser Thrask,” she was begging, keeping her voice soft. “He won’t go to the Circle willingly, but it’s the only place.” That was…odd. Someone beginning a Templar to catch her family and take him to the Circle? The idea made him uncomfortable.

“Madam, we will do our best to find your son, but I cannot guarantee his safety if he continues to resist Templar jurisdiction. I can offer your son mercy only if he turns himself in,” the Templar, Ser Thrask, said softly. Not more missing people. But this was not the same as the missing women. It felt different. An elven boy, obviously a mage? No. This one had run. Carver could feel it in his bones.

“He’s just a boy,” the woman said, and her voice was desperate, breaking. 

“He’s an apostate.” The quiet resignation in the Templar’s tone said more than anything else to Carver. He drew a slow breath, and then gave a sigh. 

“I’m trying to find him…” the elven woman said. On her face, Vallaslin faded by the years stood in blood red angles. Carver grimaced. Just a woman trying to find her child. It could have been his own mother. A few times, it almost had been.

Behind him the door creaked open.

“Carver?” Merrill. Oh no. Did the woman not follow instructions? He had told her he would let her know! He glanced back, fervently, but Ser Thrask was already on his way up the steps to rejoin the rest of the Templars who had come to investigate. A relief. He shook his head as Merrill slipped out into the square.

By now the presence of a human lurking in the vicinity of the Vhenadahl had drawn the attention of most of the Alienage. As Merrill emerged from her house, the woman with the vallaslin who was looking for her missing son drew a deep breath, eyes alighting on them, and then burst into tears. Merrill was across the square in an instant, catching her hands in her own. 

“Arianni.” Carver gave a sigh, then followed her, eyes quiet. Arianni looked about, eyes swimming with tears.

“First,” she said softly. “Ma halani. I don’t know where else to turn.” Merrill gave a nod as if it were that simple. 

“Come on,” Carver said, voice quiet. “Let’s…let’s discuss this inside.”

That was how they found themselves inside Arianni’s little apartment, listening to the story of a mother’s worst nightmare and a mage’s worst interactions with the Fade.

“I learned years ago that my son likely had magical talent,” Arianni said, sobbing into a cup of hastily prepared tea poured into some chipped porcelain mugs by Merrill as it boiled. “He’s all I have. All my family. When I learned he had magic, I could not bear to send him to the Circle. But his connection to the Fade…it gives him nightmares. Dreams of…dreams of demons speaking in his mind.” At that she broke down, small shoulders shaking. Carver gave a sigh, exchanging a look with Merrill.

“Nightmares are common for mages,” he said softly. He had spent too many nights with Bethany or Sidonie or sometimes even his father, caught up in the darkest corners of dreams. He knew as well that a boy without training would struggle. Sidonie and Bethany had had their father, who was Circle trained, but Feynriel? Where could he turn? He eyed up Merrill before discounting that thought immediately. Those demons wanted him to use blood magic…Merrill would be the worst teacher for him. “At this point, the Circle might be the best option for him, if only for the instruction.” He certainly was not going to ask Sidonie to do it. Maker, that might even be worse than Merrill.

“I truly believe,” Arianni said, with tears still standing in her eyes, and giving a quiet nod, “that the Circle is the only place that can save him.”

“When did he go missing?” Merrill said softly in spite of this. “I _will_ find your son, lethallan.”

“He…learned I had contacted Ser Thrask,” Arianni admitted, and reached into her pocket for a filthy hankerchief to dab at her eyes. “He felt I betrayed his trust. He thinks he can live free of the Circle, but I am afraid without proper training…he’ll kill himself…”

Burned hands, terrified eyes, a child’s wails behind a pair of pigtail braids. His mother rushing for an ointment. His father bending to catch her up in his arms, to carry her over with a shake of head. It hurt Carver’s heart to think on it, to remember. One of his oldest memories, something so terrifying.

It was not Bethany either. Sidonie.

Yes, Feynriel needed enchanters, the kind that the Circle could provide. It was no option for his sister, fully grown and on the run her entire life. But this Feynriel was a boy, and alone, and Carver knew no other teachers. He could not leave such a child alone in the world to die in an accident, or to be hunted by the Templars and killed for not going willingly. He thought of those burned hands, he thought of the shattered lives left in their wake each time they had moved. No. This…this would…be better for a child. 

It had to be. Those like Ser Emeric had not made it seem so bad, and Carver was named for a Templar, after all.

“Please,” Arianni said softly. “Please, you must find him. Before…before the demons finish their work…”

Merrill gave a solemn stare. Carver just gave a nod.

“There are some places I can look. Anything you can tell me that might be of use…” he said softly. Arianni gave a quiet nod.

“Of course.” She hesitated, then sighed. “Thank you. It’s been a lonely time hiding. It’s almost a relief to finally confront this openly.” Carver hoped he never had to find out how that felt.

***

Sidonie was a little more unsteady on her feet than she had originally planned as she made her way back to the hovel that Gamlen called a house. It stank of cabbages and piss, for no discernable reason. She did pause at the foot of the steps to consider that a moment before wrinkling her nose and then letting out a heavy sigh. 

She was just contemplating how exactly to make her way up the steps without falling and impaling herself on one of the many giant rusted spikes that served as the world’s most unfriendly railing when she heard the sound of footsteps.

“Sister.” Oh. Just Carver. Good. She had not fancied a tangle with a footpad so late. And not when she was carrying all the money she was carrying.

“We got paid,” she said, a little too loudly. No. Far too loudly. Anyone might be listening. He hushed her with a low hiss and then looped her arm about his shoulders to help her up the steps so she could not fall.

“Yes? Tell me more inside. I have another job, and this one’s…well, this one is personal.” It would not be easy. 

As he got her up onto the landing and worked to swing open the door, he caught sight of Uncle Gamlen scowling his way into the fireplace. He scoffed to see them, taking a single look at Sidonie before slinking off in a huff to sulk somewhere else. Leandra was sitting at the table, and at the sight of them, looked up. Sidonie brightened considerably to see her.

“Mother!” Leandra gave her a look of consternation before reaching for a paper stamped with the seal of the office of the Viscount.

“This came. It says you were involved in some – “

“Business with the Viscount’s son, and the Qunari, yes. I asked that he arrange to meet with you,” Sidonie said as Carver helped her into a seat with a low grumble. Sidonie quirked a crooked little smile. “When is the meeting?” Leandra considered the paper, torn between delight at the fact she had any news at all and despair that her own mage daughter had been fighting Qunari on the coast.

“Sidonie…”

“Mother…” Sidonie shot back.

Carver shook his head then paused, reaching for the paper, which Leandra relinquished into his hands. He skimmed the paper. His eyes narrowed, and then he glanced back up.

“A week from today. So soon?” Sidonie gave a cocky little grin.

“Told you I would handle it.”

“You were dealing with the Qunari!” her mother protested. “Oh Sidonie, please be careful.” Sidonie just gave a shrug, then settled forward to lean on her arms, and eased her purse, heavy with coin, onto the table. 

“Careful doesn’t pay for this expedition.” Leandra’s eyes narrowed. Carver gave a low sigh. Well, shit. They had not spoken to her about it yet.

“Alright, what expedition?” she insisted, crossing her arms. Carver gave another sigh, scooping up the money from Sidonie before she could spill it over the side of the table and tucking it away. He could count it again later, see how short they were, but by the weight it would make a sizeable dent in their funds, and that…that was a start. 

“There’s an expedition headed out,” he said, leaving off the part where they were traversing into the depths of the Deep Roads where the Darkspawn lived. That would just make Leandra worry. “They wanted guards for the work, but when we tried to apply, they had already filled the positions. But one of the men leading the expedition said they were looking for business partners. If we can get together the funds to invest in the operation, then we will get a third of the cut from everything they find, and the source is…profitable.” 

It was a start. But Leandra was, understandably, less than convinced.

“So you’ve been hoarding money to pay to these people with no guarantee of returns? That’s money we could have spent! Money that could pay for food, for clothes, for…a new place to live!” 

“Mother,” it was Sidonie who spoke, and even through the drink, she had a sensible tone to her voice. “We work for a mercenary company, and the work is drying up. Carver can’t get accepted into the Guard. Aveline won’t admit him. I certainly can’t work for them either. And we’re spending our lives paying down Uncle Gamlen’s debts. We can’t keep living like this. We need something new.” She sighed and gave a little shake of head at Leandra’s dubious look.

“This isn’t a gamble,” Carver added softly, knowing that to be a touchy subject. “We know there are things this expedition will find. The information is good. And the money from this can keep us fed and clothed for…Maker, years.” Leandra gave a wary, worried look between her children, pursing her lips. And then she finally relented. 

“Alright,” she said softly. “Alright. But…be careful. Please.” She retrieved her letter from Carver’s hands, folding it carefully and then tucking it inside the pockets of her skirts. She glanced to the money in the pouch, then met Carver’s eyes, since he was certainly the one who had not been drinking.

“Save a little of that for dinner?” she asked softly. “We might need it.” Carver immediately drew it out and fished through it for enough silvers to feed them for the next week, pressing it into her hand. 

“Don’t let Uncle Gamlen have it,” he said softly, and Leandra gave a quiet nod before sliding it into her pockets. She drifted off then, and that left Carver peering down at Sidonie who was once more propping herself up on the table with just an arm. 

“It’s almost half what we need,” she said softly. “About time something went right around here.” Carver considered it, then quietly settled the purse between them on the table a moment, peering at it. It was starting to look like maybe they actually could do it. He drew a slow breath, then focused on her a moment as she grew serious. “Now, you mentioned something personal.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “It…has to do with a boy…a mage…”

***

That was how they found themselves the following morning bright and early – far too bright and early in Carver’s estimation – perusing the wares of an Antivan merchant who almost certainly was not involved in any legitimate trade, or else he would be up at the market in Hightown instead. Arianni had given Carver all the leads she could, and this one had seemed at the time most promising. Feynriel’s father was a man called Vincento, the Antivan who owned the stall, who had disassociated himself from Arianni after learning she was pregnant, much as Arianni’s own Dalish clan had done. 

Carver had not mentioned Merrill’s involvement in the search. In truth he thought having her along might prove more detrimental, and the more people went to confront Vincento, the more difficult their task would become. It had made more sense, in his eyes at least, that he and Sidonie do so alone, humans who could not be ignored so easily as a pair of Dalish elves. Merrill had been displeased with the idea when they had parted the day before, but submitted to the logic at least. For that, Carver had been glad. Logic…did not seem the strong suit of a woman intent on using blood magic against all the wishes of her clan and winding up in self-imposed exile in a city run by Templars. 

All the same, as they lurked and Sidonie feigned interest in a rack of cheap scarves dotting the edge of the stand, Carver waited for the chance to speak at last to Vincento, who was busy at that precise moment with another customer. She was dressed in rough refugee garb, eyes heavy with lack of sleep, and was trying to cut a deal for…bandages? Silk thread? He was not sure. The Antivan gave a low sigh, bartering for them, and Carver hovered, listening until eventually it was clear the woman could not afford them. 

Everyone should be able to afford bandages. 

“Here,” he said softly, nudging extra silver across towards the man. “Let her have them.” That settled that, and the woman’s look was grateful. It felt like some sort of small victory that he had the opportunity to actually help people with money for once, and Sidonie herself said nothing. The Antivan simply scooped up the silver, and then turned his attention to them.

“Greetings!” he said with a dark, sultry look of a saleman. “You appreciate like people who appreciate the finest rubies from Antiva! I bring only the best northern merchandise to the Free Marches.” Carver gave a little shake of head, and then man drew a slow breath, realizing they were not there for a sale. Sidonie slid in alongside Carver, and her look was quiet, dark, burning. 

“Actually,” she said softly, “we’re more interested in your son.” Vincento pursed his lips, then shook his head, recovering quickly enough.

“My lady!” he said, expression solemn. “I am a bachelor! I’ve never met a woman of sufficient beauty and charm to tie Vincento down!” He shot her a grin, and Carver felt his skin crawl at the insinuation as the merchant’s eyes slid over his sister. The man gave a quiet little chuckle as if he had said something terribly witty. Sidonie’s look was flat and hard.

“Let us not ruin the day with such weighty thoughts,” Vincento said, changing tack. “Perhaps I could show you my silks?” He moved over towards a rack of cheap silks, nothing like the quality Antiva was capable of producing – even Carver could see that much. Carver himself gave a soft sigh. This was getting them nowhere.

The man was nervous, skittish about something. He knew enough about Feynriel then to be aware he should be nervous at least. Sidonie picked up on that and leaned in, keeping her hands where only Vincento and Carver could see.

It was her usual little flame that danced across her hands. She let it flicker in and out across her fingers, bouncing like someone might bounce a coin a moment before it skipped to the end and disappeared in a little puff of smoke. Vincento watched with wide eyes. 

Foolish, Sidonie...

Carver felt a quiet panic rising. Vincento could call out at any moment. That would be their cover blown. Why had she done it? 

But no. Instead, Sidonie leaned forward a bit more, arms sliding over his counter as she considered him.

“We are not Templars,” she said simply. “Feynriel has nothing to fear from us.” Carver gave a solemn look, and for a moment Vincento struggled with it before finally he drew a breath.

“You are a mage?” he said softly, “I suppose…you would be kind then to a boy who resists being taken in by the Templars?” He struggled with it only a little longer, but what paternal feelings he had for Feynriel drifted away with the last of his willpower. He shook his head, voice dropping lower. “The boy is in over his head,” he said softly. “I sent him to the only man I know who doesn’t despise mages…a former Templar named Samson.” 

Carver felt a flicker of unease at that. Former Templar? Once they were on lyrium, was there such a thing? He did not like where this was going, but at the same time, this Samson had obviously not turned Feynriel over to the other Templars, because Ser Thrask had still been looking. 

Sidonie was wary too. He could tell from the way her spine straightened a little. But she drew a slow breath herself and then asked the question he had been afraid of.

“Where do we find him?” 

To that, Vincento had no answer. 

“He’s a wanted man. He stays out of the sight during the day.” Carver gave a heavy sigh, gritting his teeth at that. Of course. This got better and better. 

They made their farewells to Vincento then, before Sidonie considered the stalls across the marketplace, putting a bit of distance between themselves and the Antivan. At least the man had tried, though the effort was piss-poor. 

“What now?” Carver said. Sidonie gave him a quiet look.

“An ex-Templar who needs a lyrium fix. Criminals. Carta maybe. Lyrium smugglers.” Her voice was soft as she spoke, so that no one would overhear. Carver felt a feeling of dread creep across him. He knew exactly who she was thinking of now, and he hated the idea with a burning passion. The last thing they needed was to call in a favor from Athenril of all people.

“No. Sidonie, no, I know what you’re thinking. We can’t ask her. She’ll have your head for it, you know that.” Sidonie just gave a quiet little sigh.

“He’s a little boy. Who else knows how to track runaway elves? Or runaway mages?” Well. On that count, the answer dawned on them both, in synchronization. They scowled as one.

“Fenris,” Sidonie said softly.

“Anders,” Carver replied. 

Well, that made things about as clear as they were going to get. Carver drew a sigh, then glanced away, expression solemn.

“Think you can get your elf friend to help?” he asked softly. “He got here somehow. Perhaps it was by the same route. He was doing work through one of Athenril’s people. Maybe he knows, or maybe that Anso knows. This Samson is getting his lyrium from somewhere…” Sidonie gave a quiet little nod.

“I’ll ask him,” she said, expression disquiet. “And Anders?” 

“I’d rather not. He’s trouble. But…but if anyone knows about running mages…” 

“It’s him,” Sidonie finished softly. And then she heaved a heavy sigh, thinking, mulling it over. Then she pursed her lips. “Alright. Alright, we’ll go and speak to him. But…but we’re talking to Fenris first.” The elf did not like mages, it was true, but he knew a number of secret ways, and he had already made it a point that he was not planning on turning them in. He had watched Sidonie’s back before, even if that felt strange, and Carver believed he would do so again if he could. After all, the man had few enough friends, and he was just holed up waiting. They owed him a debt. In the meantime, his help was theirs.

Anders was a different story, but the mage’s plight might be enough to get his help. It was worth a try, though not worth the unsettled state of mind Carver was feeling as a result. They had little choice. They were their only leads, unless they wanted to trust to Athenril – which they didn’t. So, their paths set, he turned towards the Hightown steps.

“Fenris first then,” he agreed. “And hope he has a better idea.”

***

“Before,” Jerrik Dace said, picking his words very warily, “you said you had been here before. That it was…like the Fade. Is it? The Fade?” They had been tucked up in a room, listening and waiting and keeping watch while Brogan was fed some of their rations and Nate tried to work out what their next steps were. The golem stood, silent and looming as always, by Sigrun where she was keeping an eye out. She herself narrowed her gaze and gave a soft shake of head.

“Not…exactly,” she replied.

“No.” It was Brogan who spoke at last, his voice mousy and frightened. “No, not the Fade. Here, but different.” Nate wished he knew more about magic, for the umpteeth time since arriving. 

“It’s like…partly the Fade,” Sigrun said after a moment. “Like a little world all its own overlaid over the top. It’s our world but not…our world? Stone, that’s confusing.” Nate agreed, but in truth it also had him confused. 

“So…they tried to use a construct of flesh to rebuild golems, by using a lot of lyrium and trying to draw things into the Fade?” None of that made any sense. Sigrun’s eyes were quiet.

“The Golems Caridin made upon the Anvil also used lyrium,” she said softly. “But there wasn’t anything strange like this…” They had been pouring over the notes they had since, details of experiments gone terribly wrong. They were horrific things, and this Nereda, a mage from Tevinter as best they could work out, had been instrumental in all of this. Nate was entirely ill equipped for the conversation at large, and he knew it, but he was trying his best. From what he could tell, from what they had seen, they were talking blood magic and lyrium in quantities that had not been seen in…he did not even know. 

He tried to consider. 

“So…switches that divert lyrium streams,” he said, quoting the words of the text. “A stream, like a flow…”

“Lyrium is mostly in solid form,” Jerrik said softly. “But sometimes it can be found in its liquid state. It’s possible we’re talking some sort of…technological work here. The smith caste has experimented with streams before. It’s…a strange combination of mage and lyrium technology the likes of which have been lost to us, Warden.” Nate shook his head.

“Either way, this isn’t the sort of thing I want to be messed up in. Blood magic – and it is blood magic, at least whatever they were doing with the Casteless – always comes with cost.” He gritted his teeth, then sighed. “Maker, what a mess.” The rest…the rest had to do with that creature. “What is it? This…thing stalking the halls? There are spirit guardians that keep attacking us, but that creature is the truly worrisome thing.” 

“It…isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen before,” Sigrun said softly. “And I’m worried that the way it moves and thinks…” She trailed off a moment. Nate considered her, eyes narrow.

“You think it’s what they made.” 

“Yes.” Her voice was quiet in admitting it. A festering mass of raw flesh and blood, the remnants of the Casteless and the dying, molded into some grotesque form and somehow driven into blood magic. Neither of them wanted to face it. Neither of them knew how to try.

“The darkspawn make monsters,” Sigrun finally said, speaking again softly. “But so do we.” She let that stand for itself.

“How many of these levels do you think there are?” Jerrik asked after a moment. “Darion can’t have gone far, if he’s still here. And at least that creature was in the other level.” 

Was it though? Nate considered a moment before giving a quiet sigh. 

“That blue was bleeding through into the Thaig itself, but we were not drawn in until we touched the switches. Only then did we actually get drawn across. So they exist simultaneously, overlapping one another, as we saw when we could see Brogan in the blue, but he could not see us.” Trying to work it out with half the pieces missing made him tired. He helped himself to some of their food, as Brogan was doing, and settled into a seat. They needed rest if they were going to go on, and the position was as defensible as they were going to manage for now. “The switches divert the lyrium streams…” He shook his head.

“The Memories are recorded in lyrium,” Brogan said softly.

“Like at Kal’Hirol,” Sigrun nodded. “Where the ghosts replayed the events of the past.” 

“But these aren’t ghosts. At least…not all of them are. Brogan here is real. The other things that are lingering here…guardians or…spirits or whatever…I’m not sure what they are.” 

“Spirits?” Sigrun ventured a guess. “Like Justice was perhaps? Since this is a weird place like the Fade, they don’t need bodies? Justice didn’t need a body in the Fade. It was only when he emerged that he wound up inside Warden Kristoff.” 

“None of this has any bearing on the golem research,” Jerrik said curtly.

“Yes,” Nate replied, “it does. Whatever they were doing here involved trying to bridge the Fade and the real world somehow, using the lyrium and these weird places, and using spirits, or demons…” He shook his head. “Too much planning went into these odd switches. It needed deeper levels, more levels, more power, to get closer and closer to the Fade, in order to try and do what they were trying to do, or else why all the barriers? Why the bleedthrough? Why the switches? Let’s assume for a moment, and it’s a fair assumption from what we have seen, that the blue is not the only fade-like level. There’s at least a purple one. And if we try to go further in, I am certain we will come across more. That means whatever they were trying to do involved a lot of dangerous, potent, magic. They were trying to bring themselves as close to the Fade as they could to do this. The question is why.”

“Why does that matter?” Jerrik demanded. “You won’t let us rebuild the golems or build on this research!” 

“It matters,” Sigrun said softly, “because the further in we go, the more dangerous it gets, and the closer to that source we get as well. It matters because the Fade does weird things. Whatever that creature is…it’s more than just blood magic and bodies. It’s…scarily close to the Fade itself.”

“So demons then?”

“Gangue,” Sigrun said softly, and shifted a little with a sigh. “And more. Whatever impurities they brought across has permanently altered the space in this Thaig. If anyone ever finds it again…”

“They won’t,” Nate decided firmly. That much he knew. He didn’t need to be a mage. “We’ll bring it down, destroy it.”

“The lyrium alone here is worth a fortune!” Jerrik protested.

“But not the lives it would take to bring it in,” Nate replied. “This technology is dangerous. The golems are not our concern. That creature, and whatever it is, is our concern. That is what has happened to your expedition.” He sighed. “I’m no mage. I don’t pretend to understand all the workings of spirits and demons. There’s a lot in the world we don’t understand, but I do know this: Amgarrak itself is shattered into pieces, by magic and by lyrium, deliberately, and the end product of all that work was a creature your brother admits eats people’s faces. There are many things in the Deep Roads people no longer understand, if they ever truly did, and our job is to make them safe again, not for more research, not to continue this madness, but to prevent it from ever happening again.” He sighed. “The Blight is a corruption, and it is our duty to stop that. But that corruption takes real people, takes us. And I don’t…see how this creature is honestly much different.” 

That was as true as he was going to get on the topic. He had been struggling for some time. It was certainly not a Darkspawn, and certainly not the same thing as the Architect either. But the experiments that had gone on here made him think of that laboratory the Architect had at the Wending Wood, at the strange blood magics he was doing for the Darkspawn, and it was enough to make his skin crawl. The Deep Roads had birthed some monstrosities – broodmothers which were warped ghouls, this…creature in the dark, the Darkspawn themselves, the children. Eideann’s goal was to see them cleared and reclaimed, to drive those things out. Whether that was possible, he did not know, but there were too many deep darknesses here to add to them with ancient experiments. 

“The ancient notes here,” he said, “date back to the First Blight. They’re over a thousand years old…” It was amazing the pages had not crumbled to dust long ago. “That creature there…that is over a thousand years old. It survived, though I don’t know how, and that dark wind barrier near the entrance, suggest something else did not want people getting in or out of here either. I’m going to kill it, to end it. I have to. And then we make sure none of this is ever found again. If someone can walk these different levels of not-quite-Fade…” He paused, thinking. “Someone might be able to walk into the Fade themselves.” It was old enough. The theory itself might still have stood. The Magisters cracked the Golden City once, after all, so he had been taught, so he believed. They had done it with blood magic, but blood and lyrium were often interchangeable to mages, were they not? What if Amgarrak itself could be used as such again. Steps, as it were, each level a little closer. He did not like the thought.

“I want it brought down. I want all this destroyed. The lyrium switches gone. We can’t have people finding this.” If the Magisters had been cast out of the Golden City with the Blight itself, if the story was true…

He thought of Eideann’s words to them, her information on the Architect, and the report of finding more, arguing about the Black City. He did not want to believe it, and yet…he had not other truths to hold to. He drew a slow breath. This…this could be the place where the Blight began again if they did not bring it down. This sort of experimentation. 

Sigrun was right. There were limits. There had to be. What good trying to save the world if one surrendered one’s humanity with it?

He gathered up his things then, pushing himself up to standing. 

“Everyone ready?” he asked softly as the other grumbled to their feet. “We’ve rested long enough. We need to find our way to the next level, before that creature finds its way to us. Assuming, of course, it was on their level, and not waiting for them, and assuming, of course, there was only the one.

That fear scared him more, but he settled it with a quiet resolve. Eideann had sent him because he could do this. Eideann had sent him because she trusted him and needed him. Eideann needed this to go well, because the world needed it to go well. He was going to do the job. 

He thought briefly again to Anders, to Justice, and drew a slow breath. 

I’m going to emerge from this mess, he decided. And when I find you, we’ll speak of this. I will find you. I will. I am not going to die down here.

He nocked an arrow as they slipped from their covered room. The only path open to them was the one back towards the main doors, so it was that one he took. In the strange blue lighting, everything felt deeper, and the lyrium glowing in the depths below was brighter than ever. 

The next switch he found in the room across the hall, kicking open a door and scattering a few more pages of the journal that were sitting on a nearby table. Sigrun hurriedly gathered those up, still not trusting Jerrik to keep to his word that he would not secret some of the research away. They told them little else of note, in truth. They had the story now, and all that remained was to come upon it, somewhere in the darkness.

As they activated the next of the switches, the world swam into a new color, a lurid purple that made him dizzy and set his nerves on edge again. What would they encounter here, he wondered, expression grim as he quietly stepped out into the hall. In the depths, he could see the lyrium wells, one of two that were hovering strangely, and a thought occurred to him.

“Sigrun,” he said softly, his gaze a little narrowed. “You remember Dworkin Glavonak?” 

Sigrun gave a small little smile, the golem beside her stomping along at her side.

“Sure do,” she said, expression fixed. “You thinking what I’m thinking.” Nate gave a quiet little nod. It was a crazy idea. It might take them with it. But Dworkin had been a genius if absolutely insane, and there were times you just had to do what you had to do. There was no guarantee that they would escape this place alive themselves, regardless of Nate’s clear decision he was going to do everything in his power to escape. The Thaig had to go, there was no question. Such a place needed to never be found again, and those weird lyrium levels had to be broken. They were powered by the lyrium itself, and there was only one sure way to get rid of lyrium fast, and leave nothing in its wake. He gave another small little nod.

“Yes,” he confirmed, his eyes shining dully. “When we find this thing, when we are sure it’s dead…let’s blow the damn place up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ON AMGARRAK, STORY-PLOTS, AND WHY IT IS HAPPENING NOW:  
> Amgarrak Thaig has a pretty serious, but also pretty straightforward storyline which opens up a significant amount of questions. These are questions that will become increasingly relevant as time moves on, especially as it pertains to some of the plot themes of Inquisition, and so I am adding to the discussions had here to frame them into an actual discussion about the limits of power, the essences of the Fade and magic itself, and Nathaniel's own character arc. On the face of it, Amgarrak is Nathaniel's story, a way to walk him from the defeated and broken and abandoned man to a purpose-driven Senior Warden who will have significant impact into future arcs. But it is also Sigrun's story, and the story of the mysteries of the world as a whole, and it serves as a dark mirror of sorts to the Sidonie Arc.
> 
> Amgarrak's arc, in terms of story, happens post-Amaranthine, but not within a specific time-frame. The fact that Jerrik Dace was indebted to the Tethras brothers for the funding of the original trip is mentioned in one of Varric's war-table missions in Inquisition, and so it makes sense for this to happen now, given the Tethras's financial situation (needing a financial partner) and the reasons for their own expedition's timing (immediately after the Blight is when the Deep Roads are clear). It fits in the sense that the dwarven kingdoms under Bhelen and with Eideann's help are expanding and reclaiming lost territories too. But it is happening in the story concurrently with Sidonie and Carver's Act 1 arcs because it presents itself as the reflection of what going too far might mean.
> 
> The dwarves at Amgarrak sought to reforge golems, and the discussions throughout this story arc between Sigrun and Jerrik are truly an ongoing discussion of just how far one should go. We saw throughout Eideann's Blight Arcs the lengths to which she was willing to go to save Thedas from the Blight, over and and over again, and they made her a morally complex character. But they also left her trying to contend with herself in ways that have no fully emerged yet, and Amaranthine as a redemption arc gave her a chance to reconcile all she had lost and given up and sacrificed in order to do what she had to. 
> 
> Amgarrak is yet another reflection of that, a test of Nate's own humanity as well as an overarching dialogue on the state of the dwarven kingdoms. It comes to us from the eyes of the noble and the eyes of the casteless, from the living and the dead, and also from the eyes of someone from the surface new into this world. In this regard, this being Nate's story lets Nate stand in for the reader, who is as lost as Nate when it comes to the mysteries, and in a circumstance that demands reflection. 
> 
> But Sidonie and Carver are not removed from this either. As Sidonie swings ever further into dark places, committing murders and thefts and smuggling because she is blackmailed or has no other choice, we are painted with another of these dynamics: where is the line of choice. Nathaniel's Amgarrak arc represents a journey from darkness towards purpose, from the lie that he controls none of his life to the determination that he does and can control this (reflected in Sigrun's role as an impact character and Jerrik's as a reflector). Sidonie's storyline mirrors the aspects of the story linked to questioning where the lines must be drawn, while Carver's reflects the growth point into a new state of being. In this regard, all three stories are an interlocking and complex knot of thematic significance. Ultimately the question of Act 1 is 'Where do we draw the lines of humanity itself, and how do we find our place within those lines?' and it is neither an easy question, nor a simple question to answer.
> 
> It is to this end that the Act 1 plotlines and stories took me so long to properly plot and mingle, and why there are chapters that feel like they have no real movement when in fact they do have a great deal of it within the context of the greater story. Act 1 is no mere fetch quest storyline. It's a genuine consideration on the human condition, and its delicate plotlines do all join in an incredible complex web, a delicately laid puzzle, that will only come together once all the pieces are properly laid. 
> 
> Sidonie and Carver, in Act 1, have concurrent storylines, but Sidonie's character arc is flatter than Carver's for the time being, which leaves some people wondering as to her role as a main character. I assure you that the dynamic pieces of her storyline do start to pick up in the next couple chapters. Her story arc has been shifted along towards the latter half of the book out of necessity - people do not always grow in nice, evenly paced ways. The story for now has been focused significantly only Carver's story arc for a reason: to mirror Nate's own growth, and to settle into the story events in a consistent, logical manner.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie returns to Darktown to seek some help from Anders; a dubious deal with Athenril leads Sidonie and her group to Samson and reveals another missing boy; a chance encounter with a Chantry Mother means trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Addiction, Violence, Slavery
> 
> Comments always welcome! 
> 
> Want to see the additional content? Check me out on Tumblr! http://higheverrains.tumblr.com. <3 ~HR

“I didn’t think to see you again.” Anders shifted, expression a little wary as he worked his way through the preparation of an ointment. The ingredients were poor, the quality significantly lacking, but the best Lirene and her lot had been able to get for him, and all he had to work with. He grimaced over the mortar in his hands, and then looked back. “I didn’t think you’d care to be seen with me.” 

The woman in the center of his room was watching him with an equally wary gaze, like she had no real idea what to do about all this. Behind her, lurking in his doorway beneath the lanterns, the white haired Tevinter elf, and her brother whose ribs seemed to be significantly improved after his healing work the other day. 

“I heard,” he said softly, “you left the city for awhile.”

“We shouldn’t have had to,” came the reply, curt and cold. Ah. It was like that then. She was not there to see him, but because she needed him. He narrowed his eyes a little at the ointment in the mortar and then slowly raised his chin.

“And what,” he said simply, shifting tones, “do you want from me then?” He could tell that the atmosphere between them was tense. He did not want that in his infirmary. He could feel the flickering sensation of Justice stirring softly inside him, and settled, closing his eyes a moment before wetting his lips. Behind him, Sidonie Hawke let her arms, previously crossed beneath her breasts, slide down to her sides. 

“There’s a boy, a kid…” she said softly, and he glanced sidelong to her, pausing his mixing. “An elfblooded mage.” He slowly set down the mortar.

“I thought you were finished helping others of our kind.” Our kind. She was a mage as well. He settled on that, and tried to understand. A lifelong apostate and she didn’t want to help anyone. 

But then, a lifelong apostate was as likely to wound up dead on sight than be dragged back to a Circle. Fewer corrupting influences. He turned to face her, bracing his hands back against the desk and meeting her eyes, that strange, deep oxblood brown that made him feel a bit warm and eased some of the tension. Perhaps the experience in the Chantry with Karl – his heart clenched at the thought and he stilled the emotion from his face even as Justice’s rage flared within him and his own sorrow swept over him – had changed her mind.

“This isn’t about me,” Sidonie said simply. “He’s just a boy, and he keeps having the nightmares and dreams. If he’d just run, maybe I’d let this go, but it’s bigger, and it matters, and I know you care.”

“I don’t know that you care though,” Anders said simply. This woman had only helped him before because she ran out of options. What was her motive this time? Sidonie’s look was flat.

“His father turned him over to an ex-Templar trying to keep him out of the Gallows, and there’s reason to suspect that Templar is in league with the Carta. Or maybe worse.” Anders darkened, and then raised his chin.

“Lyrium addict.” It did not really need saying. It was understood between them. Some ex-Templars had proven themselves valuable allies over the years, but others – too many others – turned to the only people they could to meet their need for lyrium: smugglers and slavers. A lifetime of refusing to see mages as people made it easy to rationalize it all away. He felt another flicker from justice, and then drew a slow breath. Sidonie was still watching him, and for a moment there was a silence, and then finally she gave him a pointed look. For the briefest of moments, he was reminded of Eideann Cousland and shook his head.

“I know you know people that help mages flee Kirkwall, Anders. You’ve got contacts, or else you wouldn’t have tried to get your friend out.” It stung, but it was not false. He had a few contacts, and Kirkwall had been dealing with Templar rule under Knight-Commander Meredith since the overthrow of Viscount Perrinwold in the years before the Blight. There were systems in place to smuggle mages out along with everything else that left Kirkwall’s shores, and he knew them, because he had used them, because he helped. 

But did he trust her with them? Or rather, her friends, since the concern was less the apostate before him and more the Tevinter elf glaring at him from doorway. For a moment he pondered it, and then his mind strayed back to the subject at hand. A boy. That was all. He sighed.

“Fine. I’ll…make some requests, see if anyone has seen him or heard any news of this Templar. Give me a few hours? They’re…not easy people to reach on short notice.” To his relief she gave a nod. 

“We’re going to trace the source of the lyrium smuggling if we can. We have a few leads,” she told him. “That might turn up something on this Templar. If you can find ways that he might try to smuggle the boy from the city…” She trailed off, agreement made, then gave a little nod to herself turning away.

“Hawke.” He said the name softly, and she paused a moment, tensing slightly. “Hawke, be careful around those smugglers. If they find out – ” She was frustrating, infuriating, a powerful mage who was so caught up in her own little world of survival she could not see the bigger picture, but that did not mean he wished her harm, and he knew she was concerned about those smugglers as much as anything else. It was dangerous, and whatever had driven her to the task of tracking this boy, he was glad for it. He would not wish her ill in the process of seeing it done. 

She was quiet a moment, then turned her face slightly, eyes sliding to him a moment. And then she pursed her lips before drawing a slow breath. 

“I will,” she said softly. “Meet us at the Hanged Man after dark?” He nodded, and then watched as she turned her back on him, slipping out through the infirmary door. The Tevinter elf gave him a dark glare on the way out. 

He turned back to his ointment then, hurrying through the last of that job before smearing it into a jar for later uses. And then, that done, he reached for his staff, settling the strap over his shoulder. He left the infirmary in the care of another of the refugees, and a fellow apostate he had known from the Fereldan Circle. Evelina had brought with her a gaggle of adopted children, and managed to disappear with them into Darktown. The moment he had learned of her, he had offered her work, thankful for the help from home and willing to help the children, many of whom were ill after their disasterous crossing northward. 

“I’ll be back shortly,” he told her, and she gave him a look, tired grey eyes sad, before nodding. 

“Stay safe,” she replied, and he left her to her work. His footsteps took him up through the Darktown passageways to the corridor that led up to the docks. He kept his head down as he made his way, though most down there knew him by reputation. He had no desire to cross with Templars. 

A brief stint out in the sunshine brought him to the door of a small warehouse settled back into the far edge of the smallest docks. He knocked, twice, then slowly pushed the door open, letting himself in to the dingy grey darkness and peering around waiting for he eyes to adjust. Near the back of the chamber, a man looked up, eyes solemn and quiet, and Anders gave him a nod, recognizing him as one of the members of the Mage Underground, before glancing further back towards the offices.

“I have news,” he reported softly, expression serious, “about a missing mage boy. Fetch me Selby.” And then they would see if there had been anything useful to relay.

***

“I do not trust him.” That was not Carver. It was Fenris, though Sidonie could see just from glancing back that it was voicing the thought for them both. She made her way to the Hightown steps, rising white stone settled over the dingy dirt of the lower parts of town shining in the sunlight but still so very filthy from centuries of being trodden down. 

“You don’t have to. He isn’t going to lie about this.” She believed that. Anders might be some sort of abomination, but he cared, genuinely and to the extent that it actually physically hurt her head and her heart, about what happened to mages, and he was going to do all he could to track news of Feynriel. She had never been more certain of something in her life. That spirit of Justice would not let him rest. And she planned to use that for now. “What we need to be worrying about,” she added softly, “is Athenril.” 

She had not wanted to go here first, but in truth it was the only lead outside the Carta she could rely on, and she knew the Carta did not think too highly of her, or her dealings, or those of her friends. She might have spoken to Varric, but trying to cut deals with the Carta was like pulling teeth, and the news was far more easy to reach this way around, if a little more dangerous. 

In truth, she would not have countenanced it, were they not in a race against time. The Templars were hunting Feynriel too, and the boy was a risk to himself as well. From what little she had gotten from Carver, she could tell those dreams were powerful things, and they made her concerned. He was just a boy. He needed help, one way or another. Even Sidonie had had the benefit of training from her father. 

As she reached the top of the steps and turned down the street that led to the upper red light district, she felt a hesitation settle through her. Admitting that she needed help was not going to be enough. Athrenil would find a way to use her, but she had no better ideas. She could not ask for help from Aveline, whose recent slew of unsolved disappearances was hardly inspiring of confidence anyway even in spite of her roots with the Templar Order, and she didn’t know anyone else who had actively been involved in smuggling lyrium. No. It was this or nothing.

She turned off down the side street, and carried on to the end.

Athenril was there, under an awning with some of her goods, considering them with sharp eyes as she did her usual tally. Some of them were basic things, rusted armor that was going to be sold to refugees and poor mercenaries, but among the mess were also a few stolen things to be fenced off, Sidonie knew.

At their approach, one of Athenril’s men looked up, and then gave a soft whistle to alert the others. Athenril turned, eyes narrowing to survey them, and then she gave a low little chuckle, shaking her head.

“Huh, well I just lost a sovereign,” she grinned, her look sly. “Didn’t think you’d stoop to our kind again, not after you went running back to hide behind Meeran’s heels.” Sidonie gave a low grimace, and the woman glanced back to Fenris and Carver before smirking. “Looking a bit out of sorts, Hawke.” 

“I’m here to cut a deal,” Sidonie said, a little more forcefully than she intended. She didn’t want to, but she had no options, and Athenril only spoke in business terms. The elf gave her a raised brow, then a wider little smirk.

“Are you now. And what kind of deal is that?”

“Before I even tell you,” she said simply, “I still have Meeran at my back.” Athrenil scoffed.

“That one couldn’t find his own arsehole if it was back to front and staring him in the face,” she sniffed. “But if you wanna play this game with me, that’s fine. I can make threats too.”

“You turn me in,” Sidonie said softly, “and I break your lyrium ring…you answer my questions, and I don’t.” Athenril shook her head then, crossing her arms.

“Not good enough, Hawke, sorry,” she said simply. “You here for information, you pay in work.” Sidonie gritted her teeth, resisting the urge to look back to Carver. This…this was what she had been afraid of. She didn’t want to get further involved in this lyrium smuggling, or any other kind of smuggling, but she was quickly running out of opportunities. 

“Tell me what, and then I’ll decide if it’s worth the information.” 

“Tell me the information you’re looking, and then I’ll decide the job,” Athenril countered.

“Go on,” Fenris stated simply. “I shall contend with this one.” That…was a surprisingly generous offer. Sidonie glanced back at him, brow furrowing, but he just gave her a pointed look. “We were attending to something?” he nudged, and she drew a breath.

“Alright, Athenril. No promises, but I’ll hear what you have to say.” Athenril’s look was akin to choosing which lamb to lead to the slaughter next. Sidonie gritted her teeth, and then sighed. “I’m looking for a man who moves in your circles. An ex-Templar, name of Samson.” Athenril raised an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, I know of him,” she said simply, “but if you want to find him, you will do a job, Hawke, because I can’t get a reputation of selling my associates out just because, you understand.” Of course, except when those associates were apostate mages like Sidonie, of course. That just meant this man was a client, that Athenril actually made money from him, not that they did business in the way Sidonie and Athenril did business. Sidonie gave a soft nod.

“Alright, job first, and then we’ll see if this is a deal to cut.” Athenril paused, glanced to her men a moment, and then tipped her head to walk a little further down the alley, falling in alongside Sidonie as they move. Sidonie followed because she had no choice.

“Since you disappeared, we don’t have anyone who can quite work your magic, if you know what I mean,” she said simply. “I sent some men to fence a bit of cargo down at the docks, and haven’t seen ‘em since.” She gave a soft sniff, glancing back over her shoulder a moment before fixing Sidonie with a flat gaze. “You know I don’t like when my cargo goes missing, Hawke.” 

A threat there, an acknowledgement that she had been tricked out of that deal by Anso. Sidonie grimaced at the thought, mind wandering to Fenris. If Athenril found out the source was him…

No. Best not to think of that.

“I’d pay good silver for the safe return of them, or the goods. I hear you’re in the business of collecting money now?” Athenril said simply. The lackadaisical approach to her own people made Sidonie narrow her eyes. 

“Is this anyone I know?” she asked. Her mind had skipped straight to Tomwise. Athenril’s look betrayed nothing, but she did give a little shake of head.

“Ferelden… _volunteers_ ,” she said simply. So she was still involved in that game after all. There were more than enough refugees about to take advantage of, but it did nothing to make Sidonie amenable to the risk, save the fact that in another life these people could have been her. 

_They’re not me_ , she reminded herself. But in truth, there was very little difference, and if she wanted to track down Feynriel, then she could not justify ignoring this one too. 

She had agreed to help Feynriel because she should, but it was, as with many things, motivated by a sense of self-interest. When Carver had told her about the elven woman, and about running into Merrill, the idea that all this magical attention in the Alienage just round the corner attracting the attention of a group of Templars had gotten her incredibly concerned. She wanted to help Feynriel, certainly, but the more Templars lingered in the area, the more likely they were to find Sidonie, or Merrill and through her Sidonie. Sidonie didn’t know Merrill well enough to state whether or not she would sell her out, but Carver had promised to find Feynriel, and if they broke that promise there was no incentive for Merrill to keep her own. 

No, in this, she was watching her own back. It just happened to be the right thing to do as well. 

The smugglers working for Athenril were a part of that. She would do it, but only because she needed the information to keep herself safe. She schooled the frown from her lips and then fixed her gaze on the elf before her.

“Alright, who am I looking for.”

“A lad named Pryce was leading them,” Athenril said, a disquieting look in her eye. “No one of your caliber…”

“And the goods?” 

“What do you think?” Athenril said with a small little smirk.

“You wouldn’t send a boy to traffic in blue,” Sidonie replied, curt and sudden. That would be stupid, and Athenril was not stupid. 

“We were trying to make a deal with the Carta,” Athenril admitted instead, shaking her head. “They like…luxury items. Fine fabrics, a cask of caviar, aged wine; anything one can…liberate from a Hightown merchant.” The Carta took those goods and sold them down in Orzammar in exchange for lyrium and dwarven wares they trafficked on the surface. It meant Athenril’s lyrium smuggling had finally gotten attention. But it also meant that was not one but two boys at the mercy of the Carta now, Feynriel and this Pryce. Sidonie sighed.

“The docks, you said?” she asked softly. Athenril quirked a little smirk.

“Mm, under cover of darkness. I know you’re…familiar with the concept.” She was thinking of her own lyrium run where she had almost been caught by the knight. The idea did not appeal. “The idea,” Athenril said simply, “was to get this wrapped up last week, but if they missed the drop they would try again next week, and I’m hoping it’s a simple case of beginners fucking it up.” Sidonie did too, but somehow she did not feel particularly confident about that. Regardless, it gave her time. A few days, to check with Varric about what he knew, and run through her other contacts. There was time to find Pryce yet, or the Carta would have sent word to Athenril in warning. Feynriel would have no such luck. 

“Alright, consider it a deal,” she said softly. “Now, tell me where to find Samson.” Athenril gave her a flat look.

“Cross me, Hawke.”

“I swear to the Bride of the Maker, I won’t.” Athenril studied her a moment, read the honesty in her gaze, and then gave a soft nod. 

“He does trades just after midnight, down at the Lowtown entrance to the sewers. The little overlook near the dock? Can slip in an out that way. That’s where you should find him.” Sidonie gave a soft nod.

“Thank you,” she said, turning away, and Athenril drew a breath, shaking her head.

“Hawke,” she called at her retreating back. “You cross me on this one, and I will destroy you.” Sidonie paused a moment, but did not look back. Her eyes flickered to Carver, whose jaw was set, and then she simply drew another breath before drawing away back down the alley into the pink lantern light.

***

By the time they reached the Hanged Man, it was dusk, twilight lanterns lit and glowing in the Lowtown windows. Someone was singing inside the Hanged Man, accompanied by a poorly tuned lute and a drummer, and the sound of it filtered through the paneled door out onto the street. Sidonie narrowed her eyes as they approached, avoiding a group of people gathered just beyond the corner, deep in some philosophical, drunken discussion. 

“There you are.” Sidonie started as Anders emerged from the shadows alongside the tavern, hood drawn up over his head. She narrowed her gaze at him, quirking a brow. 

“You look suspicious.”

“I’ve been asking suspicious questions,” he said simply. “And I don’t want people knowing it’s me. Better suspicious than dead.” She gave a sigh, then drew a breath. “Did you find out anything?” 

“The man we’re looking for is here in lowtown, closer to the Darktown entry. If we linger around until midnight, we’ll catch him there, and see where he sent Feynriel.”

The Kirkwall air was smoky from the bellowing forges of the foundries that dominated the smelting district of Kirkwall. It made it warm, and a little filthy, and she did not even need a coat or a cloak. To see Anders in a hood and his feathered coat seemed ridiculous, but then he had no other clothes either, and in truth, she was in no position to complain.

At her side, Carver was glowering, peering into the night to judge the time by the positioning of the stars that were just starting to emerge, a trick he had learned with the Fereldan Army and carried on to this day. Sidonie shifted at his side, as Anders gave a quiet sigh.

“My contacts said he’s not part of any of their usual caravans. No one’s seen the boy, and that…does not bode well.” 

“I don’t like this,” Carver admitted softly. “If we want to catch him, we should head down into the town. Athenril’s information was…vague at best for timing, and there’s no guarantee this man is particularly good at keeping a schedule either. If we have to lurk for a few hours, that will probably be better, otherwise we might miss him. He may even have the boy with him, since he hasn’t been missing for too long.” It was a fair point. Sidonie gave a little nod, and motioned for them to follow, turning left down the lane away from the boisterous singing within the Hanged Man and the group of intense debaters gathered on the corner. 

As they walked, she turned to Fenris, expression grim. 

“So if he isn’t leaving by way of the underground, how do you get in and out?” she asked. Fenris gave a low hum, his expression as dour as ever.

“There are ways,” he said simply. “Pirates along the docks might take passengers, knowingly or not. Merchants that cross through the gates are possible as well. Since the Templars are seeking him, it is unlikely he has simply walked out through the gates, though it may yet be possible.” He gave a low hiss to himself. “Getting involved in this mess seems likely to cause further trouble. This man is an ex-Templar, and you know nothing about him. Are you sure you should be involved in this, Hawke?” Sidonie blinked, a little confused at the softness of his voice, but perhaps she imagined it, because his look was as severe as ever. She considered a moment, then wet her lips. It was true the man had been a Templar, but if she was careful he need never know that she was a mage.

“Oh I’m sure nobody will notice little old me, don’t you worry,” she said softly. “As long as I keep out of trouble, I’ll be fine. I’ll try to avoid setting him on fire. It’ll be hard.” 

“You’re not helping,” Carver snapped. Sidonie shot him a small smirk.

“Very reassuring,” was the dark reply from Fenris. “And what about him.” The elf’s sea-green gaze settled on Anders a moment. Anders bristled.

“I promise you I am not winding up back in a Circle. Especially not a former Tevinter prison.” There was a moment of fierce tension, and Sidonie bit at her lip a moment before drawing a deep breath.

“Alright you two…” she said softly.

“I wonder,” Fenris said, his voice cool, “if it’s more effective than the Circle I know. The Circle in the Imperium is…far different.” Carver gave a low groan.

“You’re having this discussion here? Now?” he exclaimed. Anders glared back at the elf. 

“And you think it should all be the same, I expect,” he muttered.

“Once upon a time,” Fenris replied, “it _was_ as it is here. The Chantry watched the magisters closely for any signs of corruption or weakness. Then it changed. The magisters were permitted to watch over their own, and templars kept only to enforce the law.” He gave a soft sniff. “What happened next was inevitable. The magisters rule again, as powerful as they ever were.” 

“Yes. Mages being trusted to consider their own wellbeing is such a terrible thought,” Anders shot back, his voice bitter and angry. Sidonie’s eyes slid to him. The last thing they needed was him going full Justice in Lowtown. She knew these two together would be a difficulty, but she had hoped that at least in this they might somehow rise above this argument, or keep it to themselves for security’s sake. She shook her head. 

“Fenris, please… Anders…” It was half-hearted. She did not want to raise her voice as they meandered down through the lowtown streets towards the tunnels to Darktown. “This isn’t the place.” Fenris was having none of it.

“Of course, the attitude towards magic is different in Tevinter. Magisters came from wealthy families, bloodlines that had nurtured magical talent for countless generations. The Chantry was not trying to control poor peasants but the scions of the greatest houses in the Imperium. Andraste never defeated the Imperium. Her great army conquered the south, but not the north. The magisters eventually surrendered to the Chantry, but they did so on their terms. They kept their influence. Thus they reclaimed what they lost over the centuries. Some battles are lost by inches.” His look was dark as it slid back to Anders, who was glaring back just as hard.

“You talk about the Magisters as if they are all evil,” Anders declared archly. “There is much in Tevinter that is better. Locking people away, torturing them, making them Tranquil…these are not ways to contend with the evils of a handful of people a thousand years ago!” Sidonie gave a frustrated noise. 

“Gentlemen, _please_.” Her voice was furtive and a low hiss. For a moment they fell silent then, and she meandered down into a small square, overlooking the Darktown tunnels and giving them a fair view of the surrounding area. “This…this will have to do.”

“I’ll keep watch,” Carver said softly, slipping around towards the side stairs and down to the platform where she would be able to see him. That left Sidonie alone with Fenris and Anders, and the combination was explosive. She turned them both, expression hard, a warning of sorts. It went unnoticed. 

For a moment there was an uncomfortable silence, three people with very different opinions trying to reconcile some sort of company while they waited. And then, finally, Fenris spoke again, his voice quieter now.

“I have no doubt,” he admitted softly, “that some of the Magisters are good and noble men, strong enougn to resist temptation. But how many temptations do you wish to offera man before he will give in?” He looked to her then, like he were speaking to her, not to Anders, who he could not hope to convince. “Blood magic is everywhere in Tevinter. From the lowliest apprentice up to the archon himself. Of course, they _say_ it’s forbidden. Behind the smiles and closed doors, however, it’s a different matter. To be a Magister in Tevinter is to be glorious. To be a powerful magister in Tevinter…that is worth any price.” He was speaking to her because she was different to him, she realized suddenly. His words were to her not because Anders could not hear them – in fact, quite the opposite, as he was listening intently – but because they had connected somewhat the last time they had crossed paths, and there was a quiet recognition that maybe she was not like them. He was, she realized, trying to work through a significant amount of his own built-in stigmas. The ideas were not presented harshly or even fiercely. They were just his truths, and stated in such a way that Anders, standing beside him, might actually be allowed to challenge them. And so could she. 

And challenge them Anders did. He shook his head, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms.

“The same can’t happen here,” he said simply.

“If the mages were permitted to be their _own_ watchers?” Fenris replied. “Of course. It is too easy for a mage to resort to blood magic if they feel the need is great enough.” Anders gave a frustrated look, shaking his head.

“As easy as it is to resort to a sword! You were created as a living weapon. Should you not be trusted with your freedom?” Sidonie leaned on the railing, glancing out over lowtown a moment.

“My powers,” Fenris said curtly, “are not controlled by a _demon_.” If he had said that to any other mage, that might have been the end of it, but Justice…this…spirit joined with Anders, very well could be a demon, and in that regard, it was a low blow, but not technically wrong. Anders gave a low hiss. Fenris’s eyes narrowed. “A mage can desire power, justice, revenge, protection…any cause will do, and then they are lost.”

“So locking people up is the answer?” Sidonie said softly, expression quiet. “That just gives people the reason.” Anders gave a sound of approval, but the context was not missed. In this regard, his joining with Justice and his current fight seemed very much linked to that exact reason, and she still did not like the fact that she was consorting with what was effectively an Abomination, Warden or no.

“All I am saying,” Fenris said softly, his voice gently again, and his eyes drifted back to Anders, “is the Imperium offers no answer. All that Andraste did long ago to end the tyranny of magic has been undone.”

“She ended the tyranny of magic and replaced it with an entirely new one,” Anders said, eyes narrowed. The words brought to light a few buried thoughts, of Bethany singing the Chant softly to herself, of stories she had told her that the Chantry Sisters had stated.

“It was Kordillus Drakon that founded the Chantry, not Andraste,” Sidonie said softly. “And the tenets against magic were his, not hers.” 

“Considering all that magic has done to my homeland and my race,” Fenris said, and his tone was firm now, holding a bit of an edge, “I weep for your predicament. Power corrupts, as they say, and mages have power enough already.” 

“So,” Sidonie said softly, putting an end to the conversation, “do Templars.” It left them without much recourse on where to go, and she was glad for the silence. For a moment the night air was still, and then she heard a soft whistle, Carver down on the platform below.

“Sister. Someone’s coming.” She felt her heartbeat pick up a little in her chest and leaned over the railing to look, careful of the rusted iron spikes. 

“Is it him?” Carver peered a moment, then shook his head.

“No it’s…a Chantry Sister?” 

Now that - _that_ \- was odd. Was she there to see this Samson? Was he less an ex-Templar than they thought? Or was it something else? 

Sidonie motioned for Fenris and Anders to stay silent, eyes narrowing as she inched around. What if they were being followed? What if one of the Sisters had witnessed the events when trying to free Karl? What if she could tell that it was them?

But the woman, oddly traveling alone, was not moving towards them, but rather up along the lane. As she made her way down towards the far steps, a man emerged from the shadows, clad in mercenary quilted armor with a look in his eye that spoke of trouble.

The pair exchanged a few words, and then he motioned to her, nudging her towards an alley with a gentlemanly hand, a conman and not even a good one. That left them with a dilemma. If Chantry Sisters started to go missing in Lowtown too near their home, they might end up with Templars out in force, and more Templars meant more likelihood of being discovered. It was a messy business, certainly, and one she did not like the look of. There was also the part of her who absolutely knew that whatever happened down at the end of the alley was going to be very bad, and whatever murderous scheme the cutthroat had, no one deserved that, especially not a wandering Chantry Sister. The woman had already looked lost enough. 

There was another part of her that just believed it was right to step in. She gave a sigh, glancing to the others, before motioning for Carver to follow.

“Anders stay here…keep watch for this Samson. Whistle if you see him.” She didn’t need an apostate with her. She could fight with just the halberd at her back, but Anders…? She did not want to risk it. Especially not with Justice about. He gave a little nod.

“She has chosen poorly,” Fenris sighed, the exasperation clear on his voice. Sidonie gave a soft snort of disbelief as they fell into step alongside Carver, hurrying a little to intercept them before it was too late.

“Can you save someone so intent on being foolish?” 

It turned out, however, that you could. She used no magic. To do so would be foolish, but the three of them together were formidable enough as melee fighters, and the cutthroats were not used to be set upon by actual trained fighters. She battered them down, and then back, and once the ringleader lay bloody on the flagstones, the rest turned tail and fled. 

That left her in the company of the Chantry Sister, a sharp-featured woman with white hair, and a look in her eye that put Sidonie on edge, though she could not quite tell what it was. It reminded her of Meeran, of Athenril. 

“Thank you for your timely intervention. I am out of my element,” the Sister said in a graceful voice. Sidonie gave a small nod of head, and defaulted to the patterns long since established since she was a little girl. Carver took the lead on this one. Chantry business demanded the front. He stepped forward, looking the Sister over for injuries, before giving a soft shake of head.

“Surely you didn’t realize that just now,” he said simply. The woman gave a soft sigh, and a cool smile.

“I had to come here, to get the type of person I need: someone of bloody skill but also integrity. Perhaps the kind who might leap to someone’s defense?”

“Oh no,” Carver said quickly. “Look, I’m glad you’re safe, but I think you have the wrong people.” Doing work for the Chantry? That seemed dangerous, and Sidonie was wary, but then again…

“We’ve done Chanter’s work before,” she said softly. And Carver drew a slow breath, his look one of distaste.

“I have a charge who needs passage from the city,” the Chantry Sister said softly. “If you are willing and capable, there is a safe place we can meet, three days from now when they are meant to depart.”

“We just saved you in an alley,” Carver said flatly, “and suddenly we’re in business?” The Chantry Sister gave him a flat look back, and then raised her chin.

“You’re in Lowtown. What grand scheme could I be interrupting?” It was a fair point, but not one that won her any points in Sidonie’s book. This high-handed Chantry Sister felt like trouble. And yet…and yet…

A simple escort job. They could do that easily. What kind of person would need an escort from a Chantry Sister but could not have Templar support? Surely no one actually dangerous, just someone this Sister wanted kept off record. And that was why she was there. But it also meant money. People paid to keep those secrets. And Sidonie was willing to bet the money behind this would be substantial too. 

“Look,” Carver said softly. “We understand your predicament, but wandering around here on your own – ”

The Chantry Sister gave a low shake of head, scowling, and then called out, a little louder: “Varnell!” Sidonie blinked, glancing back, and came face to face with a Templar. Too close for comfort. She tried not to move, not to shift. If he got any closer to her… 

“A bloody Templar. Just what we need,” Carver said with a soft sigh, looking away. Sidonie gritted her teeth.

But the Templar was not bothered with her. Instead, his gaze settled instead on the Chantry Sister, who circled around them to cross and join him.

“I hope you will come,” the woman said simply, sliding a slip of paper into Carver’s hand, the address of a Lowtown house. “This matter only grows more urgent.” And then she was peeling off and away.

“That…that was strange,” Sidonie said softly, and Carver gave her a dubious look.

“Suspicious,” Fenris agreed. And then there was a soft sound from the end of the way, a whistle like Carvers from earlier. Anders. And he had seen Samson. 

There was no more time for distractions. Sidonie hurried back out of the alley.

“Come on. We don’t have more time to waste on this right now. Let’s find Feynriel.” 

She led the way back down the steps, and Anders emerged from the shadows still hooded to join them as they descended the steps. Down at the mouth of the tunnel to Darktown, a man was involved in a business exchange with a dwarf, peppering is body language with furtive glances. One of them fell upon Sidonie and her party, and that made him freeze. For a moment, he hesitated, and the dwarf did a runner. But Carver was in there in a moment, and Fenris was at the door, blocking off the way.

“Samson?” Sidonie said, her voice sickly sweet. “We’ve been looking for you.” He eased a moment, hesitating and considering them before gritting his teeth and giving a smile, wolfish. At one point it may even have been charming. Now…now it just looked wan.

“Old Vincento said someone might come sniffing around,” he said, eyes scanning all of them, taking them in and remembering their faces in the way that only cornered people did. “You’re looking for the boy, right? I’ll tell you now, there’s not much I can do for you.”

“You don’t look like much for a retired Templar,” Carver said. Samson gave him a mirthless grin.

“Retired?” he said with a breathy, weezing little chuckle. “Sounds better than burned-out-husk-of-a-templar-begging-coins-in-the-chokedump.” 

“Yes,” Anders said, expression wary. “But all the same.” Samson gave him a flat look, a smirk, and a shake of head.

“They don’t do anything to keep you, you know,” he said simply. “You join the Order, you’re free to walk away. But they’re the only ones that’ve got the dust, magic in its raw form.” Lyrium dust, the foundation of lyrium potions. Sidonie gave a soft sigh, and Anders gritted his teeth. Behind Samson, Fenris’s markings flickered in the deep moonlight. Samson looked to him a moment, then peered up towards the sky a moment. “You need to drink the stuff to face down the magickers. Problem is, if you ever try to stop, heh…just about kills you.” Carver gave a low grimaced, then shook his head.

“Is it true,” Sidonie said, cutting it off before it got too deep in, “that you give aid to apostates fleeing the Templars?” Samson gave a small little sigh, but there was no lie in his eyes.

“The mages I help, they’re…no more than children, newly discovered their magic, and terrified. Barely left their mothers’s skirts, and now we’re saying they’ve got to be locked away for their own good? That demons are hunting them? Do you wonder they run?” 

“No.” She didn’t. Not even a little. But that still didn’t explain where Feynriel was. She shifted her weight.

“Just looking at you,” she heard Anders say darkly, “I’d say you’re a man who helps anyone for the right price.” Samson’s eyes glinted a little, and he proved him right as he gave his answer.

“What kind of price.”

“Your life,” Carver said, expression hard, interjecting. Sidonie started at the sharpness in his voice, the ferocity of it. She had never seen him so quick to anger at a stranger. 

“Here,” Sidonie said, fishing out a silver coin. “Tell us what you know.” 

“The lad came to me, not a silver in his pockets,” Samson explained, taking the coin and biting at it to check it was real and genuine before sliding it into his own coin pouch. “I told him there’s nothing I could do for him.” Anders gave a low hiss.

“I pity any mage who is forced to rely on you for protection,” he hissed, shaking his head. Sidonie put up a hand. Samson glared at him, then glanced back to Sidonie, the only one really speaking to him.

“I pointed him to a ship captain I know,” he told her softly, letting Anders’s comments slide. “Reiner. Sometimes he’ll take on runaways. Took another apostate last week. Girl I sent him.” He hesitated a moment, then glanced away. “Might have…gone wrong though. I…heard rumors he took the both of them captive instead.” Sidonie’s expression hardened. Rumors? No, that was actual information. Anyone who dealt with smugglers knew that they used people, especially vulnerable people. She was one for instance, so was Carver, so was this Pryce now working for Athenril. She gritted her teeth, shaking her head.

“If Feynriel’s not in one piece when I find him,” she said curtly, “I’m coming after you next.” Her eyes were hard pools of darkness like blood. Samson gave a quick shake of head, putting up his hands.

“Rein it in, friend, I was just trying to do the lad a good turn! Rumor has it, Reiner had them pair of them locked inside a quays warehouse, somewhere close to dockside. You want to go looking, you might find the lad before he gets ransomed to the Templars, or worse.” Sidonie’s gaze flickered to Fenris.

“Think you can help hunt down more slavers?” she said, her voice cold. He met her gaze, expression like a storm, and his voice was as icy as her own, thick with deep darkness.

“Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ON ANDERS AND THE MAGE UNDERGROUND:  
> We know that by Act 2 and 3, Anders is extensively involved in the Mage Underground. It makes sense, given his history and his actual reasons for coming to Kirkwall, however, that he is linked to them prior to this point (or at least linked to their original base elements). So I took a few liberties with his associations there for story reasons.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isabela points Sidonie in the right direction; Warden-Lieutenant Keenan continues Eideann's work; Anders and Carver butt heads after the death of a mage; Sidonie and company find Feynriel; Carver overhears some interesting and disturbing news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence, Gore
> 
> Comments always welcome and appreciated.  
> Check me out on Tumblr: http://higheverrains.tumblr.com.

“Reiner?” Isabela leaned backwards, tipping the chair onto two legs as she peered upside down at Sidonie hovering above her, ale in one hand and cards in another. “Yes, I’ve heard of him. What do you want with that lout.” 

“Information,” Sidonie said darkly. She was unfamiliar with anyone else at the table, so she chose her words carefully. “He’s moving some cargo I need to get my hands on.” Isabela let the chair beneath her fall flat onto all four feet again and then shook her head, gathering up her cards into a neat stack and sipping at her ale.

“Too late, Hawke,” she said simply. “You missed him. Reiner sticks to his schedule. He sails at sunset.” It was well past sunset. It was almost dawn. Sidonie let out a low curse. Isabela crooked an eyebrow. “That important, is it?” She sighed, then tossed a few more coins into the pile before swiveling in her chair, lowering her cards so no one could see. “I hear he stops a little further out to pick up different kinds of cargo. You might catch him if you take the east road.” 

Sidonie gritted her teeth, then gave a nod, glancing back to Carver, Fenris, and Anders. All three looked as grim as she.

“Be careful though, sweet thing,” Isabela said, turning back to her game. “I shouldn’t have to warn you about that sort of cargo.” Sidonie gave a low scowl.

“Thank you.”

“Buy me a drink in a thank you instead,” Isabela suggested. “Happy hunting.” And then she cast down a card, collecting the winnings from the center with a broad smirk, and the rest of the table groaned. 

Sidonie turned back to Carver and the other two men then, expression severe. Fenris was watching her with wary eyes.

“I know what she was speaking of,” he said simply.

“Yes,” Sidonie said. “Slaves, like Samson mentioned.” She turned for the door, reaching to push it open into the Kirkwall night. 

“No. I know the location.” At that, Sidonie paused. Her eyes bore into him a moment, and then she urged him on with a nod. “There are holding caves which held slaves in the old times when Kirkwall was still part of the Imperium. Perfect places for smugglers to come and go unnoticed. We will find this man out there.” 

“Take me there,” Sidonie said, expression dark. “And let us hope we are not too late.”

***

In the deep dark of the Deep Roads, there were more than enough reasons to be wary. His crossbow at his back, strapped in place by a fresh leather strap, felt heavy but familiar now. He stalked with Lucan at his side, listening and quiet. In the distance, somewhere, he could sense them – darkspawn, possibly a nest. 

He was not quiet enough to scout. He had been a guard. He still was. He held a line, and that remained his purpose, seizing thaigs one by one. The depths of the Deep Roads welcomed him, a mother’s embrace after so long, and the sound of the Blightsong calling was almost a relief after all the strange silence at Amaranthine. But still he was wary, and still he did not venture too far. He had no skill with staying silent.

That was the task of the Legionnaires with him. 

They slipped one by one past him, disappearing into the darkness of the earth, men and women already dead, with black tattoos across their faces to mark their sacrifice. Some were criminals, some merely Dusters trying for a better chance. He knew them well now, after the good few weeks they had been working together: Casda who was the best shot with a bow he had ever seen and who had spent a fair amount of time training him to do better with his crossbow; Raske who could hit a genlock in the eye at twenty paces with a knife, and who was just as deadly up close and personal; Kardol, the captain of the whole damn bunch, who had helped the Warden-Commander down in the depths of Bownammar and was spearheading some of these activities now; and Renn, the newest member, who had joined on shortly before the Blight to pay down his father’s debts. He had been a cobbler before, but that meant he had graduated from a cobbler’s hammer to a bigger warhammer, and had turned his precision smacking nails into boots towards repairing armor and smacking holes in darkspawn skulls. 

There were his Wardens there as well though, and many more Legionnaires. They were hardly alone or even in a small group for this particular endeavour. After the Battle of Denerim, the darkspawn had slipped down into the Deep Roads again, reclaiming their positions in the thaigs, but those holds remained loose. He had been hard at work since leaving Amaranthine, using Soldier’s Peak as a base of operations in an attempt to scour the Deep Roads and reclaim them one by one. 

It was not easy. The darkspawn had no strong holds, but they had had months to settle into those regions, and the dwarves were ready for a fight, but Keenan had been busy recruiting what Wardens he could in the aftermath, to rebuild the fledging Wardens in Ferelden under Eideann’s directive and set about the business of at least getting a clear path from Orzammar to Kal’Hirol. That mattered – it gave Eideann access directly to King Bhelen if she needed it, and that was only the start. With the darkspawn scrabbling for new leadership, they wanted to descend upon them from behind. While Queen Eideann and King Alistair worked to reclaim the lands above and establish a strong base of power, their agents worked to rebuild the dwarven kingdoms below, to battle back the darkspawn. It was their only chance.

A difficult one, he knew. No one really knew where the darkspawn truly came from. There were Chantry stories, but since the First Blight, there had always been more darkspawn, and not only because they had captured and tainted broodmothers to make more. They came from deeper places than the Wardens had ever been. Eliminate a nest with a broodmother and that was not the end of the darkspawn. But without reclaiming the ancient thaigs, and establishing a military hold upon those regions, they would never have the chance to dig deeper into those mysteries, to trace the darkspawn back to the source, and that meant they could never win their battle.

They had to win their battle. He had given everything up to fight that fight, and he meant to do it. He couldn’t wield a sword with much capability anymore – even healed as he had been by Anders, there were weaknesses in his bones now that made such close-up fighting impossible. He could command, though, and with Lucan and his crossbow, he had the power to press forward.

He peered into the darkness, and then glanced back at the sound of a dwarf approaching. Oghren. The red-haired man shot him a grin.

“Think we’ll find another emissary?” he said with eyes sparkling with alcohol and rage. Keenan simply gave a small shrug.

“If we do, we’ll end it,” he said simply. He considered his options then, glancing back to his other wardens: a templar from Amaranthine that had been there when Eideann Cousland had defended the city from the darkspawn, Rylen was her name, sitting across from Velanna who was checking her staff with narrowed eyes. There was Petra further along, joined after all her help going through the records of Soldier’s Peak, and because she had access to healing magics that the Wardens desperately needed. Nearby were a couple of twins, elves from Redcliffe that had taken up the sword to fight after Eideann and Alistair had freed the village from a demon, and had arrived at Soldier’s Peak just last month eager to continue fighting after the end of the Blight with the felling of Urthemiel. 

In truth it was not much, but Eideann and he had been clear on their purpose: they would turn no one away. Anyone who wanted to take the Joining would be tested. If they died, they died. If they lived, they were Wardens. Their numbers were too few to go picking from among the heroes of the world. Keenan was careful, though, testing the loyalties of all those he did join before actually doing so. He did not want any more spies in their ranks. Just the one had been enough. Rolan had not cared a lick for the Wardens. He had been there to keep watch on Anders, and Joining him had been the price of defending Vigil’s Keep. But after Anders had run, after they had found Rolan in pieces in that glade near Amaranthine…

No, he wanted those who were loyal to the Wardens. That was his qualification. If they wanted to fight, then yes. Everyone else…?

He gave a soft sigh, shaking his head at the sight of the others, and then looking back to Oghren.

“You not tired of this?” he grinned. “We’ve cleared three thaigs in as many weeks.”

“Yeah,” Oghren said, unimpressed, “but none that sodding count. Just little things.” He gave a sniff, checking the edge of his battleaxe a moment before looking back. “I’m ready for a real sodding fight.” 

“I can give you one,” Raske said, climbing back out of the darkness, Casda at his back. “That’s a nasty old nest and everything. Looks new, but there’s tunnels that lead east. And south.” 

“South?” That…that was interesting. Since they had begun this campaign, they had followed the walks they could through the Deep Roads, clearing the path to Caridin’s Cross and Ortan Thaig, both of which were held now by House Dace and House Helmi out of Orzammar, as well as Bhelen’s royal guard. The Legion had claimed Cadash Thaig, which had remained mostly empty since Eideann had been through the place, and they used it now as a base of operations. Further locations were more difficult to pin down, and the distance between Cadash Thaig and Kal’Hirol had proven difficult to get a grip on, not because Kal’Hirol was not now prime for occupation – in fact, surface troops based out of Vigil’s Keep had already been stationed to hold the fortress itself and were merely waiting for them to join up with them – but because the thaigs between Kal’Hirol and Soldier’s Peak had been flooded with the forces of the Architect and the Mother, and those darkspawn still thought for themselves. They had proven to be tougher fights in the long run, because they were less about clearing the thaig and more about fighting actual battles. Keenan’s work as one of Gwaren’s guardsmen had proven useful in that regard, because fighting those darkspawn was more akin to fighting men than fighting beasts. They thought. And thinking darkspawn were dangerous. 

This route south was what was intriguing. Since this campaign began he had been trying to reach Kal’Hirol as the closest location to Vigil’s Keep and thus Denerim, and the best outlet they had as an idea. But the Deep Roads extended further, specifically down into the depths of the south, and there were massive tracts of territory undiscovered yet. Somewhere in the depths of that was Gwaren, and those routes were linked to the paths to Ortan Thaig somehow because King Maric had traveled those roads decades before. 

Ultimately, all the Deep Roads connected, one way or another. He had in his possession a very crudely sketched map, a copy of the one Eideann herself had drafted when she was down wandering the corridors in the Blight, and they had been filling it in as best they could as they went along, measuring their location with a compass and lyrium clocks, and working with the Legionnaires who were following stone sense, as well as a few of the Shapers from Orzammar who had a better knack at it. 

They had made real progress, despite the backlog. It might not seem like much, but clearing enough of the thaigs to get a darkspawn free area around Soldier’s Peak was just the start, and a good one. Difficulties from the Blight, like the flooding of Crestwood, had blocked of areas of the Deep Roads as well, and there were tunnels that had simply shifted with time and the movement of the earth. But they could reach Orzammar through Caridin’s Cross and Ortan Thaig, and that was a valuable asset. Tunnels leading south might lead to Denerim. The ones from Kal’Hirol certainly did not, and that meant finding the ones that did, short of wandering down through Bownammar to Gwaren to do it.

“A nest. Well suck my tits and call me mama, finally a real fight!” Oghren declared, and Raske grinned at him before shaking his head. His sharp eyes went back to Keenan.

“What will it be, Warden-Lieutenant?” It was not the official title – that was Senior Warden – but Eideann had insisted upon her own sort of established authority to keep them distinct from Weisshaupt. Leiutenant held a bit more power than Senior Warden to those on the surface, and since that was where that title needed to matter now, he had agreed to the change. 

“Get me Kardol. We’ll see if we can’t cobble together a plan,” Keenan decided, unwilling to go diving in there with such limited information. “We’ll need to know what we’re looking for.

“Casda’s got a rough map,” Raske reported, and then pushed past him, wandering in the direction of the Legionnaire’s campsite and towards Kardol. Casda, the other legionnaire, quirked a smirk at Keenan before stroking Lucan’s fur and tipping her head to get him to follow her back across the side.

The situation was not a difficult one. The darkspawn in the depths were not the thinking sort, just regular darkspawn ilk, and that meant an easier fight. From what the scouts could tell, upon a cursory examination, the darkspawn brood were settled further down in the corridors that made up the halls, but the thaig itself was a small one, and the roughly-done map Casda presented showed they were looking at another little settlement. 

“Any idea which thaig it is?” Keenan asked, but Kardol just shook his head.

“Every Paragon had the right to go make his own,” he said simply. “And maybe others too. It might not ever even have had a name to start with.” 

In any case, the dwarves had had Paragons since Endrin Stonehammer, seven hundred years before the First Blight, and maybe more. That was almost two thousand years of Paragons, and each had been allowed to build at least one thaig. Sometimes, they built more. 

No, the name didn’t matter. Those roads southwards did. 

The map showed a small fortress, the central hall of the thaig, and it was there they would need to enter, and there they would struggle the most. The doors itself were the difficult part. The darkspawn could hold them, and they would be caught in the darkness. But if they could bring down those doors, if they could get forces within quickly…

“Velanna,” it was a small hope. “Think you can bring down that door quick?” She considered the map, then pointed to it.

“Get me there,” she said simply, “and I shall bring it down.” Iron and metal could not stand against the magic of the earth itself, and he had watched, over the last few months, as Velanna’s earth magics tore through stone and rock. It could tear down the doors, and the doors could be replaced later once they had secured the outpost. 

“I need a front line, Oghren,” he said simply. “You feel like driving in there?” Oghren had not wanted to go after the broodmothers in Kal’Hirol, breaking down for reasons Keenan had not yet come to understand. He didn’t know if Oghren would be able to. But the man set jaw and gave a grim nod.

“We’ll go as well,” Kardol said simply. “Renn, feel like hitting something?” Renn gave a small little smirk, raised a brow, then gave a nod as if it were an easy suggestion. Kardol grinned and went about setting up an invasion party, but he looked to Casda and Raske first. “You two stay with the Warden-Lieutenant. Cover would be appreciated.” 

“’course,” Casda said, and shot Keenan a small wink. “Looks like I’m with you.” Beneath her tattoos a bright, teasing smile appeared. Keenan gave a small smile back, then glanced to the twins and Petra.

“Boys, you stick with Oghren. Petra…with me. We might need some barriers.” Petra gave a nod. The twins just looks satisfied with that, and Oghren raised a brow before stalking off to fill them in on what he specifically would need them to do.

“So,” Casda said as they all drifted off to prepare, checking her bowstring as she did so. “What are you really looking for down here?” Keenan looked up from checking his crossbow bolts with a confused look.

“What do you mean?”

“No one on the surface wants to rebuild the dwarven empire just because they want to rebuild the dwarven empire. And we lost a whole damn legion at Kal’Hirol. The risks of doing this, any of this, are high, and the reward is basically you get to sit in reclaimed thaigs and fight darkspawn more. So…what are you actually looking for? Because it isn’t a resurgent dwarven empire.” Keenan gave a snort, then tucked his bolts away where they were in easy reach, testing the tension of his crossbow before considering the woman. 

“A secure dwarven presence beneath Ferelden keeps the surface safe,” he told her.

“Surface is safe enough with the Archdemon dead, and what do they care about us anyway. Never have before outside the ones that look comely in grey.” She shook her head. “If it was that easy, they’d have sent to Weisshaupt for more of you, and swept the Deep Roads long before all this happened. Your Warden-Commander has you down here for a reason, and it isn’t the security of the realm. She’s smarter than that. I ran with her through Cadash, alongside her golem friend, and Sigrun. This is bigger than just that. That woman liked secrets.” 

She did. That was a true assessment. Eideann Cousland spent most of her time digging around deeper into things. And it was true as well this went beyond simply trying to establish routes to Orzammar that were secure for Wardens and dwarves alike to travel. It went to the very heart of that investigation earlier, to the depths of the Deep Roads, the corners of lost things. It went to trying to understand what the Blight truly was, and how it propagated. It went to working out exactly where the Architect and those like him came from, and where they were now.

Eideann worked on the surface to built a network of knowledge from across Thedas while Alistair set his kingdom to rights. Nathaniel was meant to be assisting with that work, one way or another. But down here, Keenan and his organization formed the first active group, getting their hands dirty in seeking the truth that lay long lost in the Deep Roads.

“One day,” he said simply, “another Archdemon will rise. Lusacan or Razikale. We do not know which it will be. And on that day, we will fight the Blight again. But until then, the fight goes on, and the mysteries behind the darkspawn remain. Somewhere in these tunnels is where that war began. Securing the lands beneath Ferelden is only a start, but an important one. It was here Urthemiel dwelled, in a prison far to the south, and here that we will find the first clues that lead to a much larger secret. Darkspawn live forever, and the first of the darkspawn are still here, somewhere. We can only find them, and what corrupted them, if we take back the thaigs, and reclaim all that was once lost. I am looking for answers.” Casda considered him, eyes quiet.

“You sure that sort of thing should be found?” she finally said. “Better for us all if some of it stays lost, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “There are certainly some things that no one should have the power to control. But there are also some things that were lost that should be regained, like Caridin’s Cross for instance.”

“There’s two more Blights,” Casda said simply. “Two more, and they’ve been faster to deal with since. And we’re finally getting some of the territory down here back. So…why not just keep on as we have been, bring the fight to the darkspawn, and when they do find one of those Old Gods, kill them like we did before?” Keenan was quiet a moment, and then he said the question that was really at the heart of it.

“Do the darkspawn vanish with the death of the last Old God?” Casda fell quiet, considering. Then she drew a slow breath. Keenan shook his head. “No, the Archdemons are a symptom, part of the disease. The source of this, the real source of the Blight…that’s something else.” 

“What then?” she asked simply. “Some giant broodmother at the center of the earth pumping out darkspawn until the end of time?” Keenan shook his head. Nearby, Renn gave a low snort.

“Better hope not,” he said, his voice sardonic and flat. “It’s a long way to go for the trouble of more of the same.” 

“Whatever it is,” Keenan said, “we can’t go hunting it until we’ve drive the darkspawn back. They’ll only retreat when they have nowhere else to hide in the Deep Roads. They’ll only return to that source, once they cannot stay up here. We can’t trace them back until we have reclaimed this place.” 

“Fine,” Casda said. “Save the empire it is.” 

“It’s not nearly so bad,” Raske grinned. “Casteless get a say now, remember. We’re making a new world.” 

“Enough about your new worlds. Get ready. We’re moving.” It was Kardol, his voice gruff. Casda started and then shifted her bow, drawing an arrow and getting ready. Raske rolled his eyes but drew his daggers. Kardol stalked back towards Keenan, and Lucan gave a quiet little growl of eagerness. And then the Legionnaire gave Keenan a nod.

“On your order, Warden. Let’s reclaim another thaig.” 

***

It was a full moon that lit their steps as they followed the gravel path across the Wounded Coast, Fenris leading. How he knew of the tunnels, Carver did not know. Surely he had never truly been to them? But he seemed well versed in where to find them. There were a couple, but all of them there knew that the one they would need to find would be easily enough encountered. And that proved correct. Some few hours of walking later, with dawn finally breaking, they saw it – Reiner’s ship, listing in the shallows waiting for the tide. 

“That’s got to be it,” Sidonie said softly at his side. Fenris gave a low hum. They watched a moment as a few of the raiders went in and out of a nearby cave, before Carver drew a slow breath.

“We’ll just have to go for it, before they set off.” He didn’t like the look of it, but they were running short on time.

“Two of us should sieze the ship,” Anders said, “or they might just sail away. We can’t be sure if Feynriel is inside the ship, or inside the cave.” Sidonie motioned to Fenris then.

“We’ll take the cave,” she said simply. “You and Anders take the ship.” Her eyes fixed on Carver. He grimaced, unhappy with the assignment, but recognizing the logic. Fenris and Anders together would lead to blood, and a mage and a warrior to each party felt like the right move. So Carver gave her a solemn nod, then slipped back and away, down towards the bank and the water’s edge. Anders followed closely behind him.

As they reached the bank, the sound of water slapping against the hollow wood covered their footsteps. A few of the raiders were loitering about on deck, so Carver narrowed his eyes, and then slipped into the water instead, swimming round, dripping wet, to the other side where the anchor chain dropped down into the waters. The sea was cold, and he shuddered, hating his sudden attempt at a plan, but Sidonie could see them dry with magic after they had seized the ship and found Feynriel, so in the meantime, he suffered through it. He heard a soft curse from Anders, but at least the other man was following.

Hauling himself up the chain took effort, but eventually he reached the top of the walk, and waiting for the chance before hauling himself up and silencing the watch with a quick snap of his neck. His sword took out another, and he let both drop to the deck before motioning for Anders, finally hauling himself up too, to follow him. If Feynriel was anywhere on that ship, it would be in the hold. 

The inside of the ship was dank and creaking, wood listing with the waves, rocking side to side. It would have made Carver seasick if not for the fact he was too determined to feel the effects. As he made his way along the corridors, he was listening for sounds, anything that would alert him to the presence of another person. 

At last, he heard it, footsteps, and froze, trying to pinpoint where they were. 

“Down,” Anders said first, working it out ahead of him. “Further in.” They hurried to the next steps, slowly sinking down them, and it was there the voices became clearer. Anders dropped to a crouch, Carver at his side, to listen, and work out where they were going next. But what he heard was horrifying.

“Get a hold of her! Get the hands. I heard they can’t do no spells without hands.”

“Please! Help me! Anyone!” A woman. No. A mage. Anders bristled beside him, and then both he and Carver were up together. It could have been Sidonie there. But it wasn’t. It was just a young woman. And their threats were too much. Anders flickered, that blue magic flaring through him, and Carver did not even stand in his way as Justice roared to life. The first slaver died in an instant, before he could even scream, torn apart by Anders’s hands. The second was hit full on with magic. 

“Anders!” Carver called, eyes wide, but the other man was no longer in control. And neither, it appeared, was the mage girl.

The display had pushed her over the edge. She screamed, backed against a wall, and then she _warped_. Something in her rippled outward, a blast of dangerous magic, and she changed, morphing in a band of dark light, with a final scream that tore from her throat before it turned into an echoing, deep laugh. The woman was no woman anymore, but a full, brutal, hulking abomination that reached immediately for magic.

Carver’s sword found her first, cutting through her without remorse, a quick motion, and clean. The girl fell, dissolving back into the girl, blood pooling across the flagstones, and then Carver leveled his sword towards Anders, eyes wide, hands shaking.

“No!” he said, expression angry. All his life, since the first day Sidonie had come into her magic, he had expected to need to this. All his life he had known that one day he might be called upon to end such a thing in Sidonie or in Bethany. He had acted, without thinking, the product of training and years of having that pelted into him, that once someone was an abomination there was nothing more to be done. At least for the girl it had been a quick end, but the blood on his sword made him feel sick, and he wanted to bend over and retch on his shoes.

He didn’t. Instead he stared down Anders – or was it Justice now – watching the thing flickering before him. Something welled within him then, angry and fierce, a resolute determination that he would not stand aside. He would not give in.

Anders at last regained control, and Justice subsided, leaving the mage standing and staring at the body of the girl, eyes wide, and then sliding up to Carver’s sword, leveled at his chest.

“You…you killed her…” he said softly.

“I killed the demon,” Carver said. “Don’t make me do the same to you.” A warning, one he meant entirely. Anders just stared, then tore his gaze away, shaking a little himself now and retreating across the chamber, panting softly as he tried not to panic.

“I didn’t mean…” he finally said, and Carver shook his head.

“You can’t even control it. You’re going to get everyone killed. You’re dangerous, and you can’t even admit it.” Anders went cold, expression narrowing to anger. 

“I’m dangerous. You’re the one killing mages.” Carver pointed with his free hand, sword still raised, to one of the sailors.

“You just ripped that man to pieces!” he protested. “You scared her so much she became an abomination!” Anders had no protest for that. Instead he eyed up the sword. Carver still refused to put it away.

“We are here,” he said simply, “to find that boy, before whatever in the Maker’s name happened to you happens to him as well. So stop staring at me and move.” 

“Put down the sword.” 

“Move!” Anders gave him a surly look, then turned his back, reaching for the next door. Carver waited until he had disappeared within before wiping down his sword blade on one of the dead sailors and then turning to assess the body of the girl with anguish in his eyes. In his mind, it was not some stranger, but Bethany and that hurt more than anything. He did not want Anders there to witness his grief. His eyes clouded with tears. He had killed people before, but this…he did not like doing this. He just did the only thing he could. And he did firmly believe that if Anders had just kept a rein on that bloody demon living inside him then that girl would be alive, instead of losing herself and becoming an Abomination. 

He slowly bent to draw his fingers across her eyes, and his gaze fell on a piece of paper clutched in her hand, crumpled and bloodied from her fall. He slowly drew it out, and scanned the words, expression quiet.

_Ser Thrask,_

_I know the sacrifices you've made to conceal my secret, but I am a child no longer. I cannot burden you my whole life, lest my secret destroy us both. I must live my own life as a woman... and as a mage. It is oddly freeing to write the word._

_Farewell, Father. I hope one day you make peace between what you have been taught and what you have seen._

_All my love,  
Olivia_

Olivia. He carefully mouthed the name, eyes sliding to her face, and then cursed her a fool for trusting this Reiner, for thinking he would let her go free. And he cursed her as well for putting a name to that note. Ser Thrask, the man now seeking Feynriel for the Templars, had lost his own daughter to the same madman. 

Maker, the sacrifices never ended. He gritted his teeth and tucked the paper away. He could at least see to it that wound up in the right hands. 

Anders’s footsteps made him turn, but the man just shook his head as he returned.

“Nothing here,” he said softly. “He must be in the caves.” Carver pushed himself up, expression disquiet. Anders just looked to him again.

“I didn’t mean to – ” he began. Carver just shook his head.

“Shut it,” he replied, expression angry. “There’s work to do.” Anders grew cold again, but gave a small nod. 

“Then let’s go, and we’ll see if your sister has more mercy.”

***

The first lot of slavers had been easy. Fenris had been in the middle of them within moments, hacking through them until there was nothing left. Sidonie did not even need to raise a finger. By then, the alarm had been sounded, and she hoped that did not cause them trouble. As they pressed deeper into the caverns, disposing of errant slavers as they went, she felt a sense of deep concern as she made her way towards the back, that maybe there was another exit. But Anders and Carver had gone to the ship, and they would see to it no one could leave.

She needn’t have worried. They came rather suddenly upon the end of the tunnel, and it was there that she found precisely who she was looking for: a blond haired boy who looked almost human, with Vincento’s blue eyes and Arianni’s thin face. He was on his knees before one of the raiders, the man’s hand in his hair to yank his head back, and at his throat was a knife. A hostage then.

Fenris froze at her side, and Sidonie put up a hand, trying to think quickly. And it was at that moment that she heard footsteps – Carver and Anders hurried into the room, but at the sight they froze as well.

“Shit.” Sidonie agreed with Carver. Shit indeed. She drew a slow breath.

“Take one more step,” the raider – Reiner? Or someone else? She neither knew nor cared – said in a low warning, “and the boy dies.” Sidonie gritted her teeth and then tipped her chin up.

“What about a small step? A hop? A caper?” Stalling while she tried to think. Maker’s blood, she was going to have to use magic, and the idea made her very concerned. Force would be best, but without hurting Feynriel? That was the trick.

“Do not mock me, southerner!” the man spat. Sidonie grimaced. Fenris at her side narrowed his gaze.

“Why are we even talking?” he spat. “Kill him.” 

“You’re mad!” It was Feynriel now, the knife at his throat causing him to tip his own chin back. If she could just get him to use some magic himself…he could help…except…no. No he couldn’t. “He’s going to slit my throat!” 

“You’re no good to me as a corpse,” the man said simply, tearing at his hair again and forcing his chin higher, the knife blade pricking at his skin.

Sidonie had no more time. She reached for magic, force, and then moved, the impact of it thrusting the man backward and Feynriel away, a dangerous combination, but luck held. The boy was free. The man was down. She finished the job with fire as the others fell into a rage.

When it was over, Anders hurried up the steps to check on Feynriel, who scrabbled back away from them all in panic.

“No! You would have let him kill me!” he declared, voice still high and horrified. Sidonie sighed, glancing to Anders a moment before the man caught him by the wrist and sat him down to inspect his injuries, a thin line of blood from the knife and a few scrapes from the tumble all there really was. 

“Don’t be melodramatic,” she said simply. He glared at her.

“He had a knife at my throat, and you just - !” Sidonie raised and eyebrow and he staggered, stumbling over the rest of his words. “I mean, thank you, but…what if you were wrong?” 

“You mean what if I had missed? I suppose you’d have been flattened, or come careening into my arms at the impact.” She gave a soft sigh. The circumstance had been difficult, and she was not interested in arguing the semantics now. “I’m never wrong.” Too cocky by sure. She didn’t care. The boy was safe and that was the best news she had all day.

“Huh,” Feynriel said in irritation. “That must be convenient.” Anders gave a soft chuckle as he finished up evaluating him, and shook his head, but added nothing. Feynriel just sighed. “Who are you? Are you working for the Templars?” Sidonie’s look was flat. She had just used magic and that was his best guess.

“Your mother sent us,” Fenris said simply, his tone as dull as usual. A flicker of anger and betrayal shot through Feynriel’s face and he turned away, crossing his arms to hug himself a little.

“Hardly a difference,” he said sullenly. “I can’t believe her! My whole life it was all: ‘I’ll love you and protect you’, then I have some bad dreams and it’s off to the Templars.” Sidonie closed her eyes a moment, glancing away with a heavy sigh and turning for the door. The others were making rounds of the chamber, looting the bodies of the slavers as they went. Well, at least they would get something out of it.

“These dreams,” she said simply. “Your mother said they were very bad. Was she right? Are you plagued by demons already?” At that, Feynriel hesitated.

“I can’t say for sure,” he finally admitted. “There are voices in the dreams. They ask me to come, to give shape to the Void around them.” He gritted his teeth. “They…they’re only dreams,” he protested. “I wake up…sometimes. I can deal with dreams. Anyway, isn’t that what happens to all mages?” His look skimmed to her then, suddenly a boy, vulnerable and confused. He glanced as well to Anders, whose look was equally serious. 

Sidonie only knew what she and Bethany had endured. Never had it been a question of struggling to wake up. Often the dreams kept them awake. The problem was too little sleep, not too much. 

“A sloth demon, perhaps?” Anders suggested softly. Feynriel’s face went to panic again.

“No! It isn’t a demon! I just sleep a lot! And…have bad dreams!” 

“I can’t help with this,” Anders finally admitted. “I could maybe talk to some people, but if he’s struggling like this, he’ll need to be watched, and that means supervision by a qualified mage.” Sidonie considered him, then gritted her teeth.

“And you don’t know anyone, except you and I?” Anders sighed.

“I help people leave, I don’t track them when they’re gone,” he said gently. “Most apostates try to get out of Kirkwall. There’s only you.” 

And she was absolutely out of the question. Take in a mage the Templars were hunting? Try to contend with bad dreams? She had none of the knowledge she could contend with.

“There’s only really one option then.” Anders looked distinctly unhappy.

“I was trying to get to the Dalish,” Feynriel said angrily. “They won’t be afraid of my magic.” Fenris gave a snort.

“The Dalish? They’d shoot you on sight. You’re not an elf, boy.” Feynriel opened his mouth to protest. That was when Carver stepped in.

“He’s going to the Circle, before he kills himself. The other mage trying to flee is already dead. She became an Abomination.”

“Olivia?” Feyrniel paled. Carver’s expression was serious.

“There’s a man among the Templars I know. He can help you, look after you, and there you will have access to a lot of other mages who can actually help you. And you need that help.” 

“Mages don’t struggle to wake from dreams,” Sidonie said softly. “That’s strange even for mages, and someone who actually knows things about magic needs to help you.” She glanced to Anders, and he gritted his teeth.

“I can’t believe we’re considering this.” 

“Please,” Feynriel said. “I’d rather be killed by the Dalish than turned Tranquil by Templars.” Sidonie closed her eyes a moment, but Carver spoke again.

“I’ll go with you,” he finally said. “I’ll see to it you wind up with the right people, who will protect you and look after you.” 

“The right Templars you mean?” Anders shot angrily. Carver silenced him with a look, then glanced to Feynriel. 

“Look,” the boy said, “I know it’s different in other kingdoms, but here? No one helps Circle Mages. Anything the Templars don’t like, you get the brand! The Dalish…they’ve had magic forever! They could teach me!” Carver’s expression was hard. Anders drew a breath.

“Keeper trains him, keeps him safe from demons, no one gets locked up,” he suggested. “Sounds like a winning plan.” 

“Because no Dalish mage ever went astray,” Fenris said darkly, voice dripping with sarcasm and warning. 

But the plan was not so simple as all that. The choice was not so simple. Sidonie shook her head, but Carver was the one who spoke, ignoring Anders and speaking directly to Feynriel instead.

“Your mother was Dalish,” he said. “When she told me you were missing, she explained why it was she left them to raise you. She said they cast her out because they didn’t want an elf-blooded child. And the ones near here…they’ve done the same to others. We’ve seen it happen. The Dalish won’t take you in. They’re not a haven. And there is only one mage among them. There’s no guarantee she can help you.” Feynriel looked crestfallen, and Sidonie wet her lips, considering him softly.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “These dreams have me concerned. They’re not…they’re not normal dreams, Feyrniel. Someone who knows more about other mages than I needs to help you here.” He gritted his teeth, swallowing hard and bowing his head.

“I saw what you did to those raiders…” he said softly. “I can’t hope to fight you.” He sighed. “Fine,” there was anger in his voice. “Go and get your blood money. Tell my mother she won. But she’ll be the only one I don’t miss when they lock me away.” 

Carver stepped up, shaking his head.

“Enough,” he said quietly. “This isn’t about making it easy.” Feynriel pushed passed him, trying to shove his way through, but Carver did not leave it at that. He glanced to Sidonie, expression severe.

“I’ll see to it he gets there,” he said darkly before following him out. 

“And I suppose _we_ will tell mother dearest,” Anders said. His expression said everything Sidonie needed to know.

***

The early morning light made the Gallows more imposing. Carver followed the path up from the dock towards the main courtyard, expression severe. At his side, guided by his hand on his shoulder, was Feynriel, whose expression was one of guarded reluctance.

“Why are you doing this?” the boy said after a moment, eyes haunted.

“Because you need help, and there isn’t anywhere else to find it.” Feynriel shook his head.

“You could have let me go.”

“You know what happened,” Carver said, “to the last mage we met among the Dalish?” His voice was quiet so no one could overhear. “They cast her out, because she started summoning demons and using blood magic.” Feynriel started, staring. Carver sighed. “When we visited their camp, they couldn’t see the back of us quick enough, and enough of them wanted us dead simply for not being elves. There is a single mage there, the Keeper, and that’s a massive risk to take that they would even accept you, nevermind agree to teach you, and that if she could teach you she would be able to explain these dreams. The Circle is a hard place, but my own father lived in it, and it is only thanks to what he learned here that my sister is alive today. There are mages here that can help you. And I’m going to introduce you to a man who will look after you. Do you understand?” Feynriel settled a little at his side, as Carver crossed the courtyard. 

He found Ser Thrask near the keep steps, overseeing the training of some recruits, a blonde haired woman with a sour expression, and a man with a massive ginger mustache. At his approach, Thrask narrowed his eyes, but then he glanced to Feynriel, and then quietly slipped around the training yard. 

“This is…” he paused and held out a hand then, to take Feynriel’s and shake it in greeting. “Feynriel. Your mother was worried sick.” Feynriel gave a sour look, and Thrask sighed, glancing to Carver.

“Where did you find him?” he asked. “I had men tracking him for days. How did you know to bring him here?” 

“I spoke to his mother,” he said simply, and left it at that. The story was one that was not worth sharing. Instead he raised his chin. “I want your word that you will look after him, that no harm will come to him here.” 

“Serrah,” Thrask said, expression wary.

“Carver Hawke!” Another voice called, and a second Templar crossed the courtyard to join them, this one with old, kind eyes, and a quiet, weary expression, grey hair betraying his age. 

“Ser Emeric,” Carver greeted, hand still on Feynriel’s shoulder, a sign of protection more than anything now. “Feynriel, this is Ser Emeric. He’s a very good man. He knows most of the Circle Mages by name, and he will look after you.” Ser Emeric gave a quiet little smile, genuine, and nodded. Carver’s gaze flickered to Thrask. “And this is Olivia’s father.” Feynriel’s eyes went wide, and for a moment he hesitated, but then he eased a little, this time shaking Thrask’s hand properly.

“Good to meet you.”

“I wonder,” Carver said simply, “if you might find a mage by the name of Tobrius? He…knew my father. I thought he may be able to help Feynriel.” There was a flicker of surprise, but then Ser Emeric gave a little nod, and disappeared across the courtyard to go and seek out the man. Thrask gave Carver a wary look, considering him, and the information, with wary eyes. 

“Maurevar Carver…” he finally said, and Carver held his gaze a moment, blue boring into Thrask’s blue as if in challenge. 

Tobrius appeared with Emeric, looking wary until he saw Carver, and the boy in his hands. Carver explained the situation, and then nudged Feynriel towards Tobrius, to the other mage, and not the Templars, to see his promise met. 

“Tell him about those dreams,” he said, and then drew a breath as Emeric escorted Feynriel and Tobrius away, expression curious and concerned. That left only Thrask to contend with, who waited until they were at a fair distance before finally raising his chin a little.

“And how,” he said softly, “do you know Olivia?” Carver drew a slow breath, expression fading to one of sorrow, and then reached into his pocket to draw forth the bloodied note. He pressed it then into Thrask’s hand. 

“This,” he said softly, “is for you. She was on the same ship that was set to sail with Feynriel.” Thrask took the note, expression anguished, and read through it before crumpling it into his hand. For a moment he did not speak, simply processing, before he finally gave a nod, teeth clenched, eyes sliding away towards the floors.

“I should have forced her into the Circle. My own weakness in the face of her pleas is what destroyed her,” he finally said, shaking his head. “Thank you for bringing this to me. She is at peace now. I would not wish to see her name smeared while her ashes are still warm.” Carver gave a quiet little nod, and then turned, stepping back towards the docks to go. 

“Wait! Please?” Thrask’s voice caught him off guard. “You…you have done a great deal for us recently. Ser Thrask, Enchanter Tobrius, and myself listed as allies is no small feat, Serrah, and the fact your father was once a mage in our Circle…” Carver’s look was wary.

“And?” Thrask considered him a moment, then glanced to the recruits a moment.

“Think on it?” he finally said. Carver let out a low sigh, considering the recruits a moment, and mulling over the offer in silence. He couldn’t. Absolutely not. Such a thing would be an complete betrayal, and there was much about the Circle he did not like the sound of. The Templars were knights sworn to Andraste, but religion had always been Bethany’s calling, not his. And anyway…what would he do about Sidonie? 

But on the other side, the work he had done thus far, the work done without Sidonie, had given him the chance to change things, and it allowed him the chance to protect his sister. Knowing those within the Circle was a powerful thing, he knew. Even if it was a limited sort. What good could he do if he stayed there, if he worked there? How many more could he help? And he could do something about fools like Anders…or at least be better equipped to stop them than being forced to watch while he tore people apart. 

He gritted his teeth, eyes skimming the recruits, deep in conflicting thoughts.

The recruits all seemed around his age. The one with the orange mustache was sparring with a brown-haired man now, but one of them gave a low hiss.

“Lookout, here’s Macha again,” he said, and the one with the orange hair froze, glancing back. That caused Carver to look too, and there was a woman with short blond hair, looking like she needed help. Ser Thrask sighed, and then crossed to contend with her.

“Excuse me. I must see to this personally,” he explained, and then headed off to intercept her, expression disquiet. Carver watched him, and then glanced back as another of the recruits made a soft sound of protest.

“Oh no…Thrask’s going to tell her to leave off it again, isn’t he? Poor thing.” 

“Well if she keeps coming around here looking for Keran, what else is he meant to do?” the mustached man said. 

“Shut it, Paxley,” the blonde haired woman said.

“To the Void with that, Ruvena,” the brown-haired man said. “Keran and the others are missing. The Knights aren’t doing anything to find them. The first ones disappeared weeks ago!” 

“They must have their reasons for keeping this secret, Hugh,” Ruvena said.

“And that will be a great comfort if you go missing next,” brown-haired Hugh shot back.

“I hear that Knight-Commander Meredith has a new initiation you have to go through,” Paxley, the orange mustache, said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand and checking his sword while Thrask was too busy with Macha to see them slacking off. “If you’re not strong enough, or fervent enough in belief, you don’t make it out alive.” Carver narrowed his gaze at that, glancing between the recruits and Macha. They had noticed him now. Paxley narrowed his gaze. Carver wet his lips, before deciding to step into the conversation.

“Sounds brutal,” he said softly. “And effective?”

“And you honestly believe that?” Ruvena wrinkled her nose, giving a soft sniff of disgust. Hugh looked to Carver, then to Ruvena.

“Recruits keep going missing,” he said in a soft voice.

“Wilmod came back,” Ruvena replied. This seemed fresh news to the rest. She gave a small nod at their confused looks. “He did. I saw him this morning.”

“What else do you know about this initiation?” Carver asked, stepping towards them and closing the space. He was involved in the conversation now, he may as well keep it quiet. Orange-haired Paxley’s mustache bristled.

“You hear about some…questionable things that the Order must do these days. The Knight-Commander only wants Templars that can do…what must be done.” Carver thought of Olivia, dead on his sword, and grimaced. 

“Andraste alive!” Hugh said in a panicked voice. “She’s killing recruits that might question her orders, isn’t she?!” Ruvena snorted a reply.

“That’s rubbish. She wouldn’t do that.” No. Or she’d never have any Templars at all. But all the same, it was good to know. Ruvena gave a little shake of head. “Wilmod told me he was going outside Kirkwall,” she finally told the others. “Clear his head, he said.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this sooner?” Hugh protested. Ruvena just raised an eyebrow.

“Knight-Captain Cullen ordered me to keep quiet, right before he chased after Wilmod.” Carver looked between them, then gave a slow nod, glancing back to check on Thrask and Macha. Whatever their conversation, it seemed ended, and Thrask was making his way back to them. Carver gave the recruits a small nod, and a tight-lipped little smile.

“Well, thank you, for…your insight,” he said, and then turned away. He made his farewells to Thrask, who simply clapped him on the shoulder before barking a quiet order for the recruits to get back to training. It left a great deal of questions, and Carver a lot of confusion. The idea that recruits were going missing though, and that the Knight-Commander might be behind it? That did not sit well with him. 

If he wanted the truth, if he wanted to really understand what was going on there, he would need to find this Knight-Captain Cullen. But he wanted to speak to this Wilmod first, to find out what was really going on. He didn’t fancy any initiations, and if there were people still missing, how might that affect his sister. 

It was enough to get him worried, and so he made up his mind. He’d look into it, after a bit of sleep. But for now, he had to head back, to see to it that mother was alright, and possibly collapse on Lady, after a day that had already been too long.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ON FEYNRIEL  
> There's obviously a lot of things switched up (no warehouse for instance, the addition of a ship) for this Feynriel chapter. It seemed silly to follow the trail from the warehouse to Darktown then the caves on the coast when they're on a time crunch. Also we've got some of the pieces and parts starting to fall together now on Carver's story arc that is wrapping things up over on his side with his contacts at the Gallows, from Tobrius to Thrask to Emeric and soon to be Cullen as well. On Sidonie's side, she herself has no idea how to deal with Feynriel's dreams, and no idea how to actually help him, as well as no ability to do so herself within Kirkwall (she's still wanted for the stuff in the Chantry after all). Her decision not to go to the Dalish was based on what she knows of Merrill and on how the Dalish treated her. In this instance, Feynriel himself is elf-blooded and therefore looks human (not elven) and they weren't too pleased when she showed up. Nor where they happy that she was in the company of Merrill (and in truth Sidonie was not happy either). 
> 
> The fact that she's cut a deal with Athenril to try and find him matters. We do have two arcs running concurrently for these storylines: a Mage/Templar Arc and a Crime Wave Arc. Expect things to heat up very quickly from here-on out.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver goes for a walk beyond the walls; an encounter with Wilmod and Carver puts Cullen on guard; Carver tracks a lead to yet another brothel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence
> 
> Check me out on [TUMBLR](https://higheverrains.tumblr.com) for more!
> 
> Comments always welcome and appreciated! <3 ~HR

That morning, the sky was grey with the threat of rain. Carver did not care. He gathered up what meager food he could, tucking it all into a sack, intent on disappearing.

“Where are you going?” It was Sidonie who was awake. Leandra was not yet stirring – the grey light of dawn proving too early for her to rise and shine. Gamlen had only come back late anyway, and even now, Carver could hear him snoring.

He did not want to tell her. Telling Sidonie would mean telling her his concerns, and why he had them, telling her that he had been speaking to Templars and was looking into Templar business. She wouldn’t like it. Worse, she wouldn’t understand it. He was doing it because he needed to, to do something for himself – not because Aveline had some spare work that needed doing and not because Sidonie needed a sword at her back, but because it was right to just do it. And this…? This mystery was the sort of mystery he needed to pursue on his own. 

So he glanced instead to Lady, giving a low whistle to get her to rise, and then reached for the door with the sack over his shoulder with food for later. 

“Out to clear my head,” he said, sword-hilt over his shoulder. “I’ll be back.” 

She did not try to stop him, and for that he was grateful. With Lady dogging his steps, he climbed the way up out past the early morning bazaar where a few shopkeepers were only just starting to bring out their wares and open up their stalls and shops. He didn’t stop, though he did give a nod of head to Lirene who was unlocking the door to her imports. 

By the time he had reached the outside of the city, he was energized from the fresh air. It still looked like rain, but the rain kept the stench of Kirkwall down, and the chance to get out of the city, to forget for a moment about everything within, was an appealing one. Lady seemed glad for the exercise too. For too long, she had been cramped up inside Gamlen’s little house, looking after Mother and proving a useful guard. As they departed the Kirkwall gates, she frolicked into the beachy grasses that broke through the jet and sandstone, barking excitedly and glad at the opportunity to play. Carver let her. He didn’t have the heart to call her back to his side just yet, and to see her so happy after so long? It was worth every moment.

He knew a few places to camp on the coast, locations where someone might go if they wanted to escape the city for awhile. The Wounded Coast was full of raiders and Tal-Vashoth, but it had some nice little nooks and crannies. But further to the north up the main path were a number of camping spots that settled into the winding paths of the Vimmarks, and if he was going to go somewhere to camp he would not choose the Wounded Coast. 

So he headed northward, hoping to run across a caravan coming in that might have seen this Templar Recruit Wilmod, who apparently had all the secrets. 

He proved in luck, as not a good forty minutes from the gate he did encounter a caravan that had seen a Templar, though they did not have his name. He was camping just off the road up in the foothills of the Vimmarks, so Carver thanked them and made his way up. A promising start. Lady bounced at his heels, and he felt a sort of solemnity settle over him. Out there, away from Kirkwall, made him think more of Lothering, of simpler days. He had sparred with the Templars in the yard then, gone for long walks with Lady sometimes too. Being outside the gates, and admittedly away from Sidonie, let him pretend just for a moment he was still in the Fereldan Army, still a soldier, with a plan, with a life, with…something. 

This was not about the recruits – it was, but it wasn’t. It was about Carver doing something for himself for once, seeing to business because he wanted to do something, not because Aveline had extra work, or because Meeran had sent them, and not because Sidonie needed looking after. This was just Carver trying to be Carver, he knew that, and so he allowed himself the chance to do it, just this once, to get beyond everything, and to think.

He finally reached the footpath, and caught sight of smoke from a fire, and decided that must be it. He started up, a little hesitant, uncertain if this Wilmod would be friendly or not. At his side, Lady settled, and the two climbed onward together.

***

Ever since he Meredith had named him her Knight-Captain, things had been busier than ever. He had a sense of purpose, that this was right, that he was meant to be there. He had a loyalty to his men. This would not be like Kinloch Hold, where the mages had had the chance to trap themand torture them. This would be different. He was going to make sure they were ready, that they could stand anything.

He had been training this group himself, with a few hand-picked lieutenants to see to it that there were real exercises and constant vigilance being drilled into them. They couldn’t afford to be taken by surprise here, not in Kirkwall.

Everyone knew about Kirkwall. It was the hotbed of blood magic, and everyone in the Order and the Circles knew it. Many did not survive the Harrowing – he had seen it himself within his first week, how quickly they fell to demons here, as if the Veil itself was even more tattered than it had been at Kinloch Hold when the Circle there fell. Almost double the mages in Starkhaven or Ostwick turned to blood magic in Kirkwall, and that meant constant vigilance was necessary. Required. 

Kirkwall was the hardest posting there was. Knight-Commander Meredith had entrusted it to him to serve, to continue being the strength of the Order, to do what had to be done. He was going to train his recruits, and train them well, to stand the way they had not stood against the mages at Kinloch Hold, and he would do better.

So when he had learned that some of his recruits were disappearing, and that one of them had come back, he had gone immediately to find him, only to learn from Recruit Ruvena that Wilmod – that was his name – had already disappeared outside the city.

Sometimes people ran. He would not fault any would-be Knight from running before Knighting in Kirkwall. He would rather they left before they formally joined the Order. But rarely did they run, then come back, then run again. 

No, there was something very strange going on here, and someone had brought attention to rumors spreading that the Knight-Commander herself was involved. That, of course, was ridiculous. Meredith Stannard was many things, and hard included, but she was not trying to chase away those Knights that could perform the dangerous task of serving in the light of the Maker. 

He had tracked Wilmod, on Ruvena’s words, outside the city, and knew he was camped higher up in the hills overlooking the city to the north. He had camped himself, wondering if Wilmod was indeed just out for air, and if he would come down to join him, and to work out a plan for if he was not. 

He had not seen Wilmod, though, so it appeared he must be the one to climb up to see him.

And then, he thought with a flash of irritation, immediately reprimand the man for taking an extended leave of absence without notice. 

But something felt wrong. He had nerves since Kinloch Hold, suspicions all the time. The smallest of things set off the largest panics, and he knew at times this was an overreaction, but in Kirkwall? In Kirkwall, how could it be, when the place was laced in blood magic and demons. He had learned over the past year to trust to his feelings, to believe them. They were not wrong – maybe elsewhere, but not in Kirkwall. In Kirkwall those would be the difference between life and death. 

He was strapping on the sword and shield over his Templar plate when he heard the sound of footsteps, a man climbing up the gravel hill. He looked over, wondering at first if the man was a threat, if he was there to seek Wilmod, to meet him, and that was why Wilmod was there.

He turned, planting his feet, to confront him, but as his eyes fell on him, he froze.

He knew those eyes. Soft, deep blue. The shape was right and everything. For a moment he was plunged back into places that were wrong. This man was a demon. It had to be. Who else could echo those eyes?

Solona’s eyes.

He drew his sword, leveling it towards the demon, eyes dark and angry.

“Maker’s blood, I will kill you, demon. Not a step closer.” The demon put up its hands. At its side, a dog was barking. For a moment, Cullen was not entirely convinced he was even awake – such thoughts lingered only in sleep normally. But he was awake. There was a soft breeze on his cheeks, and the dog at the demon’s feet was definitely an actual, real mabari. He could smell its fur, scents of home. 

“Woah, okay, hold up.” The man’s voice was sharp. “I’m not a demon.” Cullen narrowed his eyes, glancing back to the man. He couldn’t look him in the face, not with those eyes staring back, but he could glower in his general direction, and this he did. “I’m not a demon,” the man said again. 

He didn’t feel like a demon. Cullen’s Templar abilities made him aware of the presence of magic. But how then to explain the way the man was looking at him. He shook his head, expression dark. Alright, if he assumed he was not a demon, what should he do first.

A name. Get his name.

“Who are you?” 

“Carver…” the man said. “Carver Hawke.” He hesitated, and then gritted his teeth, considering. “I’m…a refugee. Ferelden.” Yes, Cullen could recognize the accent in his voice, and the mabari at his side was no lie. But why the eyes. Why those damned eyes? 

“Why are you in Kirkwall?”

“My mother’s family is here. Gamlen…Gamlen Amell…? And…where else where we meant to go.”

Amell. For a moment, Cullen did not even move, putting together the pieces, slowly, carefully. Gamlen Amell….

Solona Amell. Solona had been from Kirkwall, originally, or her family had. She had told him about them once – her mother Revka, her brothers and sisters. 

Then this Carver was a cousin? Those eyes were not just Solona eyes. They were Amell eyes. 

Ever so slowly, Cullen lowered the sword, though he did not put it away, and his fingers remained wrapped tight about the hilt, in case he had cause to use it. 

“What are you doing out here?” Carver took in the sight of him, like he was weighing his words, and then sank slowly into a crouch, stroking his fingers over the mabari at his side, like it was a comfort. There was something familiar in him, something that recognized darkness. The man had fled the Blight, had seen it. Cullen drew a breath. 

“I’m looking for someone, a Templar. I heard he knew about other missing recruits.”

“And why,” Cullen said in a suspicious voice, “would that involve you?”

“I know Ser Emeric, and Ser Thrask. I…was just…trying to help. The recruits couldn’t go looking without breaking with orders, and…I had time. I heard one of them came this way.” Ser Emeric and Ser Thrask? He was familiar with him then.

“You’re the man that’s been helping Ser Emeric with his investigation looking for Mharen,” he said flatly. Carver gave a nod, pushing himself up, the dog now a slobbering happy mess from the pets at his feet. Cullen watched him rise, then sighed. “I’m Knight-Captain Cullen Stanton Rutherford.”

“You’re Fereldan,” Carver said softly. “I wasn’t expecting another Fereldan around here, certainly not one with any rank.”

“Yes.” He pushed away thoughts of Kinloch. “I’m from Honnleath.” Carver quirked a small smile.

“Little town, Honnleath. I’m from Lothering.” You could trust people who came from small towns, Cullen thought. You knew who they were, what they were up to. When things were odd, there were reasons, and you knew what people were up to.

He had left Honnleath early, when he was young, only thirteen, to join the Templars. One of his earliest memories was of a mage resident in the area who had been conducting experiments with the sanction of the Circle, being crushed by a golem in the village square. His experiments had killed him. The mage’s wife had sold the golem’s control rod so it could never be activated again, and the golemn itself had become something of a centerpoint of the village after that, a strange statue in the square. But Cullen had never forgotten that it had killed someone, that magic had done that, and that the Circle had not sent anyone to help the woman, or Matthias, the mage’s son. 

He had grown up wary of that statue, and once spoken to one of the Templars at the small Chantry in the village about it, and if it could have been stopped. As soon as he learned that Templars had the power to defend people from such magic, he had been enthralled. Templars were heroes, and from that day forth he had wanted to be one of them, to look after everyone, to protect them from dangerous magic. He had been eight when he decided. 

He had not thought of Honnleath for some time. He was not sure why speaking to this Carver Hawke would suddenly make it rise up out of the depths, a recollection of family and all that was lost. His mind skipped to Mia. He should tell her… but he did not even know if they had made it out of the Blight, and hearing, after everything, that they had not…

He pushed the thoughts away, angry at them emerging from nowhere, and gave a sullen look towards his sheathe as he settled the blade back inside.

“You seem to have a lot of dealings with the Order, Carver Hawke,” he said softly, considering. Carver gave him a wary look.

“Bad habit?” he suggested, and Cullen sighed.

“Wilmod is further up this path. If you help me work out what is happening here, then you shall have my gratitude.” Carver considered him with those Amell eyes – they still made him uncomfortable and caused him to look away again – and then gave a small nod. 

“Alright. I’ll help you.”

“Wilmod is only one of the missing recruits,” Cullen began as he gathered up his things for the trek up the rest of the hill. “I have been conducting an investigation of the rest. This began when Macha, the sister of one of my finest recruits, came to speak to me about his disappearance. I did find it strange at the time. Keran isn’t the sort to simply vanish. Even I could see that. When I asked around, the other recruits mentioned others that were going missing. One or two at a time.” He adjusted his shield and then started up the path.

“There are a few that have this idea in their heads that Knight-Commander Meredith is behind the disappearances. Preposterous. Recruits can be worse than a weaving circle with their rumors. There is a vigil before the Templars take their vows, but the gravest danger they face is falling asleep.” He sighed, glancing up the path. “Wilmod was the first to return. He had only been back a few days when he left again secretly, and that set off some warning bells. He has to be out here meeting someone, and it is my fear that this is mages. There’s something bigger behind this. My recruits are not disappearing one by one without reason. Wilmod has never been fully _convinced_ of the Order’s rules. Mages cannot be our friends. They must _always_ be watched.” Wilmod had been friendlier to some of the apprentices in the yard before. It had put Cullen on guard. His concern was that those recruits disappearing were working with the mage underground. “I am worried they are trying to contact apostates around Kirkwall.”

Carver Hawke said nothing, but his expression when Cullen looked back was a hard one. The Knight-Captain took that as a good sign the man was genuine enough in his intentions. He had, after all, helped Ser Emeric, and was familiar as well with Ser Thrask. Both of those men were seasoned veterans, not jumpy new recruits. They knew what they were doing, even if there were some who said that Thrask and Emeric were voices of moderation. Emeric had been serving the Order for decades, since before the Kirkwall Incident had led to the hanging of Knight-Commander Guylian and Meredith’s ascension. Emeric was a good man, if a bit soft, but he understood the rules, and why they were in place. And so, Cullen believed, did Ser Thrask.

If they trusted this Carver Hawke, then he would too for now. He needed all the help that he could get.

As they climbed the last of the path, and the hills evened out, he at last caught sight of Wilmod’s camp off in the distance. He motioned to it for Carver Hawke to see, and they set off, the mabari in between them, to confront the man.

“I shall do the talking,” Cullen assured him, eyes narrowed. “And we shall get to the bottom of this.”

Wilmod was crouched over a small cookfire as they approached, but as they drew near, he looked up, and his eyes went wide. He hurried up, backing up a few steps, looking like he perhaps might flee. 

“Knight-Captain!” he declared, panic in his eyes. Cullen considered him with an angry look.

“Run, Wilmod, and you will regret it,” he warned. Wilmod glanced between them, eyes still wide. 

“Please, if I knew you were out here…” Cullen scowled and then stepped around the cookfire, closing the distance. “Please, please I don’t know – ”

“Where are the others?” Cullen demanded. “Where is Keran? Who are you meeting?!” Wilmod watched as Cullen drew nearer, and then tried to run, but Cullen caught his arm, yanking him back.

“I don’t know!” Wilmod cried. “I’m not meeting anyone! I don’t know where Keran is!” 

“Andraste be my witness, Wilmod, I will have the truth from you now!” Cullen declared, believing none of it. Something felt wrong about this, off. He had learned to trust his feelings. His fingers gripped the man’s arm tightly. Wilmod’s expression was wrought with fear.

“Mercy, Ser! Mercy!” Cullen’s face was a mask of disgust as he yanked him closer.

“Were it that easy,” he growled. 

“Don’t hit me!” came the pathetic whine.

And then a knee connecte with Wilmod’s breastplate, knocking the air from him, and the man staggered back, coughing and trying to gasp a breath as Cullen reached to draw his sword. 

“I will know where you’re going, and I will know now!” he spat, staring down the blade. He felt Carver Hawke stir at his side, but ignored him, gaze still narrowed at the recruit. Something felt very…wrong. 

And then Wilmod gave a laugh, cold and twisted and stretched too thin. Something in Cullen yawned open, a great pit of fear as he realized what it was. He took a step back as Wilmod forced himself up, all odd angles and strange warped. 

“Abomination!” he warned, but Carver Hawke had already drawn his own sword, angling it across his body with finesse that spoke of training.

He had seen people become Abominations before. He had seen it over and over, in Harrowings, and at Kinloch Hold, and when facing blood mages elsewhere. But this…a Templar?! Abominations were mages! Not Templars! It was horrific.

He almost didn’t move fast enough, frozen by the fear that had seeped through him. If a Templar could become an Abomination, what was stopping him? What held Salacity at bay?

There was a cry, Carver Hawke, he realized, and he lost his footing as the other man shoved him back, getting in the way despite the fact the Abomination was charging him down, and he wore only basic leathers for armor. The sword did the work, battering the Abomination back, cutting through Wilmod – whatever was left of Wilmod – and shearing down into the ground below in a heavy swing. There was finesse to it. He had been right. In those moments, so panicked by what had happened, he fixed on the strangest things, noticed the oddest details.

Carver Hawke wielded a sword like a Templar Knight. 

And then it was over. The other man’s hand was down in his face, held out for him to grasp.

“Up you get, Knight-Commander,” he said softly, and Amell eyes bore into him, and all of it was wrong.

Everything was wrong. Except…there were no Abominations, no demons. Wilmod – or the creature that had stolen Wilmod away – was gone, and only Carver Hawke remained. Where one Amell had fallen to demons, this one had stood. 

It occurred to Cullen he owed the man his life.

His hand clasped his, grasping it tight, and he slowly allowed Carver to help him up, collecting his sword from the ground as he did so, and then staring down at the mess that had been Wilmod.

“Maker’s blood…” he said in horror. And then he hung his head a moment, before hardening. “I knew. I _knew_ he was involved in something sinister. But this…is it even possible.” He raked a hand through his hair, struggling with the reality of it. If his recruits were disappearing, if this was not only Wilmod, what did that mean for the rest of his command? What did that mean for the Order itself? They were compromised. There was nothing…nothing that could be done… He had to get to Keran.

“He’s dead,” Carver said, expression severe. “Now let’s figure out what happened.” He bent to tear through Wilmod’s things, like he was an expert at searching bodies, and for a moment, in spite of everything else, Cullen wanted to know exactly what this man did for a living? Investigated missing people? Took work off Templars? 

_He is a refugee_ , he thought. _He probably does anything he can._ He paused at that, and then blinked as Carver came up with a slip of paper, a handscrawled note.

“What is that?”

“Receipt,” he said. “From Hightown.” From Hightown? What sort of place would Wilmod go in Hightown, that - ?

Oh.

Cullen felt a blush blossom over his cheeks, and he brought a hand up to scratch at his neck, embarrassed, as he noticed the bright red lipstick mark in the corner of the paper. 

“Maker’s breath.” Carver pushed himself back up, giving a sigh, and looking him over.

“Tell you what,” he said simply. “Save your dignity, and I’ll follow this lead. I know someone who might be able to help. If they’ve seen your Keran, you’ll be the first to know.” 

It did seem the time to widen the investigation. If his messing about in the hills camping had cost Keran his life…No. He could not think like that. And yet he now definitely needed to report this, to assemble his Lieutenants and explain exactly what was happening. He drew a breath, trying to work out his next steps. Someone had to know something. He also needed a clearer list of all those who had gone missing.

“If these things are infiltrating our ranks…”

“I’ll find Keran,” Carver told him, expression fierce. “You stop the rest of them.” Cullen had little choice at that. They could cover more ground separately. So he gave a nod, reaching to knock down Wilmod’s shelter and collect his things to be better evaluated back at the Gallows. 

“Alright, Hawke,” he said softly. “I wish you luck. Keep me informed.” Carver gave a small nod, and then retreated a few steps, backwards, the dog following. 

“I’ll shout if I hear news,” he said, and then swept a small bow of head. “Good luck yourself.” And then he was gone, back down the hill towards the town. Cullen sighed, then glanced back to the body and then cookfire, before kicking at it to scatter the ashes across the stones in an expression of anger and helplessness.

_Keep it together_ , he told himself. _Keep it together, keep it going. You’ve got work to do now. People to save. Let’s start with what we find here._

***

Carver slammed his hand down on the table between the Rivaini pirate and the swindling dwarf, expression severe. 

“Tell me,” he said fiercely, as he lifted his hand to reveal the receipt he had found among Wilmod’s things, “which brothel this pair of lips belongs to.” Isabela gave a soft laugh, and Varric turned it to consider the writing with a narrowed gaze.

“Looks like you’re in luck, Little Hawke,” he said at last. Isabela slid her cards into her boot and then stole the paper.

“A cheap one,” she said simply. “Not the Rose. Why? Are you looking for someone special on a budget, Carver?” There was a teasing lilt to her voice. He scowled at her.

“That’s not – no. I’m tracking someone.” 

“You do a lot of tracking in brothels, Junior,” Varric smirked, but then shifted from his seat. “That one’s one of the smaller establishments, but the mark there is for a Madame who happens to owe Bartrand a favor I can call in for you.” Carver gave a sigh of relief that there was at least that lead.

“Are you free now? I’m…in a hurry.” 

“Been that long for you, sweet thing?” Isabela grinned. He shot her a dark look.

“You think I’m a harmless, don’t you.?” he spat. She shook her head, look sultry.

“As harmless as a pup that will someday grow into its fangs and sink them deep,” she replied. He scoffed.

“Sure,” he snapped. “Keep teasing. I’ll show you how much of a pup I am.” At his feet, Lady gave a happy little gruff. He sighed. Isabela gave a soft laugh.

“I know. That’s why I do it.” She pushed herself up from the table too. “Come on then, puppy. We’ll go and see about finding you the owner of this nice pair of lips, hm?” Carver just blushed harder, but they were both offering to help, so he relented, allowing them their fun.

Varric took the lead taking the steps up to Hightown and then round to the Red Lantern District and the alleys in the vicinity. There were a few brothels. Most people tended to consider only the Rose, but in truth that was only the most famous, funded by Coterie money and held for the most elite clientele. The other brothels were smaller, tucked further back, nowhere near as glitzy or as fancy. It was one near the very back of the alleyway that Varric led them to. It looked so run down it didn’t even have a sign, so Carver could not have said the name if he wanted, but as they were admitted to the dark interior where the sounds of sex echoed in the dimly lit, smokey rooms, Varric made his way across to a woman in cheap silks at the center of the room, and after a few words, they were in the company of the Proprietress, a woman who introduced herself with a mousey glare and the name Viveka. 

“You need something, honey?” she asked, eyeing up Carver with unimpressed, cold eyes. All a show then. Not that it was not ever not a show. But…there was a reason this woman was here and not at the Rose. 

“A couple of Templar recruits went missing,” he said, and Varric gave a low grumble. Isabela groaned outright. Neither of them had actually asked what this was about, though, so that was their fault not his. He plowed ahead, determined now, fishing the receipt back out of his pocket. “They were last seen here.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” the woman said flatly. “We do a lot of _business_ with the Templars.” 

“The Templars are the ones who want this information,” he said, expression disquiet. Viveka smirked.

“We make a lot of our money off nervous Templars that expect some privacy,” she said simply. 

“I’ll _be_ discreet,” he assured her. The woman gave him a one-over before sighing and then disappearing a moment into the back. For a heartbeat or two, Carver was confused. Was that a sign to leave? Had just just walked away? Was that a no? 

But then she returned with a book in her hands, which she settled on a nearby table, and bent over to leaf through the pages. She relieved him of the receipt, considering the paper a moment, and then matching up names.

“Wilmod. Wilmod…” She paused. “Here we go.” She smirked, then looked back. “Wilmod came in here a lot.” She met Carver’s gaze. “You sure he had time to be a Templar?” She considered the book again, tracing the line, and then said simply. “Looks like he last saw…Idunna, the Exotic Wonder from the East.” Her voice was unimpressed. Carver blinked.

“The Exotic Wonder?”

“That’s quite the stagename,” Isabela said, amused. 

“It sounds better than the Tramp from Darktown,” Viveka replied simply, making to close the book.

“Wait.” She looked up and Carver wet his lips. “Keran. Is there a Keran in there?” She skimmed the book, then gave a nod, sliding it shut between her hands.

“Idunna again,” she said simply.

“Is there anything else you can tell us?” Varric asked, and Viveka grinned.

“Honey, I could write volumes on the things I know. Unless you want Wilmod’s favorite position, I think you have what you need.” She motioned for them to head on back. “First door at the top of the steps,” she instructed, and then disappeared again. 

Carver climbed the creaking wooden steps warily. He did not much like being in the Rose, but this nameless place…how did anyone get comfortable enough to take off their trousers here? Give him a barn any day. He blushed at the memory, of Peaches back in Lothering, and sighed. 

At the top of the steps, he found the room, the door ajar. He listened a moment, to make sure he was not disturbing anyone, and then pushed the door open, Isabela and Varric at his back. For a moment, he was wary, until he saw the woman, in pink and purple silks, sitting on the bed. She glanced back at the sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor, and a quiet, sneer of a smile touched her mouth. Her eyes were dangerous, deep and cold.

“You must be the Exotic Wonder of the East,” Isabela grinned. Carver let out a sigh. Idunna considered them each a moment, then fixed her gaze on Carver. 

“I charge extra for groups,” she said simply. Carver shook his head.

“We just had a question,” he replied, hurrying to make that clear. “Do you remember entertaining a Templar called Wilmod a few weeks ago?” She shifted her weight on the bed, dark lipstick pressed into a thin line in thought.

“Wilmod…Wilmod…” she mused over it a moment, before shaking her head. “That doesn’t sound familiar.” Isabela snorted.

“Do your clients like this charade?” she asked. Carver scowled as the woman turned her gaze away, slowly drawing at the strings of her bodice, loosening it.

“Questions,” she said in a low voice, “are boring.” She patted the bed at her side, and Carver found himself taking a step closer. “Why don’t we have some real fun.” 

“Junior, go easy on this lovely creature,” Varric said at his side. Carver gave a low sigh.

“As charming and relentless as you are, I am here to investigate.” Idunna considered him, then smiled.

“Answer one of my questions first. Who told you about little old me?” He hesitated. Everything in him wanted to slap the question down, to get the answers he came for and get out, but when he went to speak, it was not his persistence than emerged, but a name…the name.

“Viveka.” There was something in her eyes. It gave him a headache, and for a brief moment something in him stirred, a recognition that something was horribly, terribly wrong. She shifted, bringing up and hand, and that was when he felt it, a dark, yawning pool of magic, opening up, so unobtrusive at first that the entire thing was still partially hidden. It had a pulse, a deep dark throbbing – like heartbeats.

Like blood.

It twisted in his mind, and suddenly he knew. He knew more than anything ever. This…this was blood magic, toying with his mind.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Idunna crowed. “So Viveka sold me out, did she? That drab, pathetic little sewer-rat. She will be dealt with. Just do one more thing for me.” Her fingers flickered, and Carver found himself reaching back to his belt, to the knife that he had at the small of his back. He heard it slide from its sheathe, and his blood went cold. “Draw you blade,” Idunna said, “and bring it gently across your throat.” 

He struggled. He had to. He had no choice. It was that or die. Something in him rippled out, a force he did not know he had, and for a moment he felt like he was falling. Until suddenly there was an impact, something in him snapped, some tension released. The darkness of the magic swam away, the ebb and flow like a pulse breaking, and Idunna staggered back, like she had taken some sort of blow. She stared, eyes wide, and then her mouth hung open.

“How did you…oh shit!” Carver reached to catch her as she tried to dart away. He did not need to.

She fell down, dead, one of Isabela’s knives in her heart. Carver watched her fall, and then turned away, panting softly and shaking. He threw down his knife, expression horrified, feeling the power of it still pulsing in his veins, and wanted to be a bit sick at the thought. His knife buried itself into the desk in the corner, thrust through the wood by the force. He stared at it a moment.

And then he saw what was beneath it.

Papers, letters, illicit meetings, one with Wilmod’s name. He stared a moment, then yanked his knife free, and dug through the papers before fixing on a location.

“The Undercity,” he said. “They’re in the fucking Undercity.” That was where they always went, wasn’t it? People disappeared into Darktown. People always disappeared into Darktown.

Too many people disappeared in Kirkwall.

“Varric,” he said, and passed the papers over. “Find the place for me?” The man skimmed the papers for clues as Carver slid his knife back home, trusting to Varric’s ability to navigate the thieves’ dens and dark sewers better than anyone. Varric eventually gave him a nod.

“Down on the east side,” he finally said. “If we hurry, we might catch them before anyone learns what happened to this one.” Carver gave a nod.

“Let’s get moving then.”

“Are you going to tell us who this Wilmod and Keran are?” Varric asked, dropping the papers back onto the desk and chancing a glance at Idunna’s body before following Carver to the door.

“On the way,” Carver assured him. “I’ll tell you everything.” For now he was once again raising against time, and Keran did not have long. If he wanted to find him, to get to the bottom of this, he would have to move quickly. 

Really though, far too many people simply went missing in Kirkwall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ABOUT CULLEN SCENE  
> I switched some of the dialogue around here. It made more sense with the way the story went to have this conversation BEFORE anything. Also, I needed to give Cullen a good REASON to have his sword at a recruit's throat cuz I'm sure that's not standard operating procedure by Templar Knight-Captains.
> 
> NOTES ABOUT THE RED LANTERN DISTRICT  
> Kirkwall has a Red Lantern District. It also has apparently only one brothel. That's stupid, because it's a big town, the Rose is expensive, and there's an entire Red Lantern District. Also, it felt very odd that all Carver's information tracking kept leading him to the same brothel. So...there's more than just the Rose, as with any actual historical city, and the Red Lantern District has more buildings. Idunna and Viveka work at this nameless place up the road.   
> As for the fact so many people go missing in Kirkwall? Who knows? People have ALWAYS been missing in Kirkwall. I chalk this up to Templar insularity, and the guards under Jevan being entirely corrupt and ineffectual. Needless to say, there's absolutely a problem here. SO many people going missing in Kirkwall isn't new - it's always been the case (hundreds of slaves per year) - so...>.> yeah, Kirkwall itself is scary.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver, Varric, and Isabela go hunting for Templars and uncover a nest of blood mages; Cullen tries to wrangle a new recruit for the order; Sidonie and Carver realize they're still short on funds; Carver and Fenris get involved in a business they would rather avoid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: violence, gore
> 
> Comments always welcome! As per usual, find me on [Tumblr](https://higheverrains.tumblr.com) for more content! ~HR

“So we’re looking for Templars that have been possessed?” Varric’s voice was dark and incredulous. “Great. And I thought this didn’t get better.” He shook his head as he navigated the carved tunnels of Darktown with his usual flair. “Junior, you’re dancing too close to this one. How’d you get muddled up in this shit this time? Does Hawke know?”

“Don’t tell my sister,” Carver said fiercely, hand on Lady’s collar. The rest…the rest he could maybe explain, but he had no idea how to tell Sidonie about all this. He could hardly walk up to her and inform her he’d been doing work for the Templars. He wasn’t trapped in this particular job. It was work, and it mattered – he just wanted to help people. In any case, it was in part to look after her as well. What kind of place would Kirkwall become once it came to light that there were sinister attempts by blood mages to force demons into Templars? The bloodbath that would cause would be unfathomable. It the Knight-Commander learned of it, how many Circle mages would feel the brunt of it. Meredith Stannard was not a kind woman, and the last year had made it clear that being a mage in Kirkwall was hard, harder than it should be.

After seeing what sending letters had earned Karl, and hearing the story of Samson who had simply been a mailman and nothing more and thus been cast aside, and after hearing the fears of the recruits that Meredith herself was involved in such things, he understood a little. He had no desire to push the buttons of the Templars, to bring them down upon him, and he especially did not want them going anywhere near his sister. He respected a few in the order – Ser Thrask, and Ser Emeric seemed to mean well, and he himself had been named for Ser Maurevar Carver, another Templar stationed at the Gallows at one point. But he knew as well all this was dangerous. He was doing this to protect them, to protect Sidonie most of all. 

If the Knight-Commander knew her recruits were possessed by demons, there would be a reckoning, an Annulment of the Circle and a crackdown on mages across the city. And when that happened…

His mind skipped to Anders, to the spirit of Justice that had turned the girl on the boat into an Abomination, or that had massacred the Templars in the Chantry itself. No. He wanted Sidonie as far as possible from that. She would not understand what he was about here, helping Templars, but in the end it was to look after her.

“Little Hawke, if you’re in some sort of trouble…” Varric began, but Carver just shook his head.

“I’m doing this because it’s right to,” he said, expression dark. He knew the words as much as Sidonie and Bethany: magic should serve what is best in me, not that which is most base. This…this was in violation of that. Sidonie was better. Sidonie shouldn’t take the fall for whatever these people were doing.

And in truth he was proving something to himself: that he was valuable and capable beyond her, that his strengths lay in other places, far from all this mess. He was concerned as well. These were not just mages toying around with blood mages, but powerful ones, capable of doing a lot of damage. He was going alone with just Varric and Isabela, and of course Lady, and there wasn’t any good way to say that it was dangerous. He had felt how powerful Idunna was at the brothel, and he knew that this was no joke, no laughing matter. These people could subdue Templars with blood magic, force demons inside those that were meant to be bolstered by training and lyrium to contend with mages. 

If they turned that power on him, what chance did he have?

But he had to. For too long, Kirkwall had ridden roughshod over Sidonie and himself. For too long people like this had forced them into hiding, into ill company like Meeran’s or Athenril’s. For too long they had scrabbled for scraps because Kirkwall was scared of the ones like this. 

No longer. No. Now…now, he was going to take some of it back, to carve a little place for himself, and in so doing hopefully he could find a bit of security for Sidonie too. The Templars surely would not come for his apostate sister when he had done so much for them already? Surely…

Darktown always felt sinister, the old haunt of darker things. Kirkwall had been built by Tevinter, and its sewers were ancient mining tunnels which had once housed ancient laboratories. The sort of magic that had gone into the work at Kirkwall made Carver very wary, because much of it yet lingered. It had resulted in a shattered Veil – Sidonie had once told him it made her frightened to do magic at all within the city, it was so frayed, like if she used the wrong type of force, she might just split the whole thing open unwittingly. A tattered Veil was no good to anyone. It let demons pour out into the world, and those demons coalesced in the depths of Darktown.

These blood mages were not going to be alone. He knew that much already, not just because blood mages were always accompanied by demons, but because they would be in the sewers anyway. Even fights that did not involve mages down there wound up with some sort of impact from resident spirits interested in the action and whatever holdovers Tevinter itself had left. None of it was every pretty. This…this would be worse.

He also had very little confidence at this point that they would find Keran intact and alright. 

All the same as they delved further into the dimly lit tunnels, he could tell without a doubt that there were darker things lurking. What light they had came now from smoky lanterns and fires of burning refuse that let off a smoky, oily gleam and set the corridors to playing tricks on the mind. Old mining carts on derelict tracks skirted through old tunnel shafts, where Tevinter had dug deep and far to mine out blocks of great jet stone which had been sent to all corners of the Imperium in its height. Carver wondered just how many had been lost in those halls, to make the Veil so thin down there. Many, and many more at the Bone Pit, and even more on the surface, where the Magisters had ruled supreme. 

Kirkwall came, he decided, in far too many dangerous layers, each just settled upon the remains of what had come before, until time itself could hardly tell the difference between the cruelties of one age and the cruelties of the next. 

He was just trying to work out how they might actually find this nest, the location of Keran and anyone else who had gone missing of late, when he felt it, a quiet, dark power that surged softly in the distance, like waves tugging at sand along the shore of the Wounded Coast. 

Heartbeats, the ebb and flow of magic bound to blood. He knew that feeling. Idunna’s had been the same, if stronger. If he followed that, if he let that lead him…

He did not know quite what it meant that he could feel that strangeness. He had no magic of his own, his father’s powers split between Bethany and Sidonie. And yet there were times that magic did feel like something to him – Sidonie’s was fierce, powerful, and warm, a jolt of something sudden. Bethany’s had been quiet and unobtrusive, a gentle breeze or the kiss of sunshine on his cheek. His father’s had felt…stern.

This just felt wrong. He followed it, ignoring any questions he got from Isabela and Varric.

“It’s this way,” he said simply. “I can feel it.” Let them wonder. He was not in a mood to explain himself.

His intuition, and that strange feeling, proved right. He was not sure if that was something he should be glad of or concerned about. 

As the corridor opened up into a chamber deep below the bustle of Kirkwall high above, there was a quiet sort of danger that flittered over everything. He saw it then, the source of that strange power he could feel, a twisting bar of light, a cage of sorts, and within, trapped in repose, a man with hair the color of straw and a face that spoke to being too young.

Carver froze, staring a moment, and Lady drew to a standstill at his side. He should have brought Sidonie. Or…or maybe Merrill, since she knew a thing or two about blood magic. He didn’t know how he was going to break that spell himself.

It had to be Keran. There was no doubt. Such a spell was complex and intense, even he could tell that. Varric gave a low whistle at the sight of it, and a quiet, “Shit.” Isabela was scowling.

“Any idea how to get him down?” she asked with an unimpressed look. Carver drew a slow breath, and then took an equally slow step forward, warily making his way towards the strange spell cage of light, until he heard a flicker of footsteps, and heard the click of Varric’s crossbow Bianca.

“Company, Little Hawke,” the dwarf said, and Carver reached for his sword.

Company turned out to be a quartet of mages, all of them in black and grey and red robes. One of them, the one at the center, was a woman with eyes that were shot through with red, and along her hands were the scars of a well-practiced blood mage.

“How wonderful,” she said. “More vessels for our experiments. Perhaps the demons will find one of you suitable.” Now that…that would not stand. Carver gave a low grimace, narrowing his gaze, and then angled his sword before him, prepared.

“She’s an Abomination, I think,” he heard himself say, a strange feeling, nothing more, that there was more beyond this. His words seemed to upset the woman, who glared him down in anger, lips painted a strange shade of bloodless-white.

“I am not some helpless waif that went crying to a demon,” she spat. “I sought them out and embraced them.” She circled, with her brethren, and Carver circled too, keeping himself between the mages and Keran, and angling so that Isabela and Varric would have a decent chance at getting the jump on them. He hoped they understood that much of the plan, it never being discussed. 

“Demons can inhabit much more than mages and corpses,” the woman said, and Carver gritted his teeth. “With assistance, they can control anyone I ask. Any Templar. Any noble.” There was danger in her words. This…this was why blood magic should be feared. “Any well-meaning meddler. If a few more Templars fall to the demons,” the mage said, her look going cold and a little wild, “we can seed chaos in their ranks. How many Abominations can they discover among their own before it drives the Knight-Commander mad?” 

“Go ahead,” Carver replied, feeling a flicker of anger at that. “Try to give me to your demons.” He would fight them every step of the way. At his side, Lady gave a low snarl.

It was clear by that point that only one of their groups was coming out of this alive. Carver was going to make sure it was them. 

Varric took the hint first, and Bianca shot, bolts tearing through the flimsy robes and taking down one of the mages before Isabela was among them, darting up with her knives and then circling back, a duelist trained and ready. Carver went for the woman, the ringleader, it appeared, who dredged up the darkest parts of her magic, and tore the Veil clean open, a slew of demons pouring forth from beyond and swinging at her urging towards him. 

Something in him responded. He had long known how to use his sword. He could use it well, and easily. At the feeling of the Veil tearing, Carver himself felt a flood of power, and that was power he was going to use. He was no mage. But he knew mages. He was no Templar. But he fought like one. 

The force of that burst outward, and a staggering beam of light erupted that scattered the mages, knocking two back, and sending the woman down to her knees. She reached for mage, desperately, staring at him in horror. What he had done, Carver could not say, but she found none of that magic then, and her shriek was the last thing she managed before his blade took her head. He turned on the others, one who went down before Carver could reach him by a blade to the back of the head, and the second who tried to turn and run before Lady ran him down.

The strange power that had rippled out had also disrupted whatever magic was affecting Keran. Carver glanced back, expression concerned, to see the man fall, tumbling to the ground, where at first he did not move.

“Shit.” That was Varric again. Carver glanced back to him before dropping to a crouch at his side. And then the Templar recruit stirred, a slow sort of motion, like he were waking from a deep slumber. For a moment Carver did nothing. He did not know if there were a demon inside Keran or not, and he had no way to tell. As the man slowly braced his hand against the jet floor of the cavern and looked up, Carver met his eyes.

Nothing. He couldn’t be sure, but he himself saw and felt nothing. Keran blinked up at him, confused.

“Is…is it over?” Carver reached to catch him, slinging his arm over his shoulder to help him rise. The man wore only a rough tunic, none of the Templar insignia. 

“You’re Keran,” he said. The man gave a nod, blue eyes narrowed against the haze of what had happened.

“Yes, that’s…my name. Oh, thank the Maker.”

“But is it only Keran? It could be Keran plus one. A very nasty plus one at that,” Varric asked, expression darkening. He had had the same thought. They both knew more than enough people infested with demons already, and Carver was damn certain they were both considering the same person in those moments.

It was not until the last few days that Carver had truly understood. In those few days alone he had seen Anders decimate a Chantry of Templars; witnessed a girl become an Abomination, and a Templar too; felt Idunna’s blood magic, and the spells at work there in that very chamber; and now…now Carver was wary. 

Mages were not like they had been in Lothering, when it was just his father and sisters. Mages were dangerous, and he understood now just what it meant to witness their devastating power now. He had never put thought into what it was mages could do, because he had experienced what it was mages just did. But this…? This could not go unanswered or unchecked.   
Andraste was right to warn against magic.

But that didn’t necessarily mean the Templars were flawless either. 

He adjusted his arm about Keran, who still needed some help standing, and then shifted away from the bodies left in their wake.

“Someone should be told, sent down here to investigate,” he said quietly. “This…could be bigger. I doubt that was all of them.” He looked to Keran a moment, then sighed. “What do you remember about how you got here?”

“I…I was with a lady. And then things got fuzzy.” Carver scowled. Well, at least with Idunna done, there wouldn’t be any more going missing, at least not that way. “Nightmares…then…on fire for days, a demon laughing…a naked lady with razor claws in my chest. I’d wake and hear screams. Maybe…my own?” He looked a little horrified at the thought. 

Not a demon in him then, but definitely a demon somewhere in those dreams. Carver scowled and then slowly drew Keran along back towards the tunnels they had come from.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said softly. At his side, Lady gave a low whine.

The Templars would know better than he if there truly was a demon there. In any case, there was no way to avoid it. Knight-Captain Cullen had seen what had become of Wilmod, and he would be able to tell if the same was the case with Keran, better than Carver and Varric and Isabela could. 

The sooner they were out of that mess, the better.

***

On the one hand, Carver Hawke had done as he promised, and brought his Recruit back. Cullen could see the haunted look in the boy’s eyes, the way he clung a little to tightly to his sister upon seeing her again. He saw the way he held the ordeal close to his heart, and he knew, he knew without a doubt, that this man and himself shared something deeply personal and painful – what it felt like to be at the mercy of blood mages.

He did not need Carver Hawke to tell him of the blood mages he had fought down in the tunnels to know that they were behind it. He did not need him to explain that Keran had been trapped in a cage of light. It was familiar, too familiar, and he knew how brittle such a thing had made him in the aftermath of his own experience. 

He could not discount that they had broken Keran as they had broken Wilmod. He had to do his job, and do it properly. A promotional period then, he decided, somewhere away from the mages, and he would need to take this to the Knight-Commander as well. Such things could not stand.

Keran was grateful for the opportunity, but not necessarily the suspicion. At least closer, Cullen could watch him. That was all he could do. A trial period, and then if he continued to perform well, then they could see about continuing with his track towards knighthood.

As one of the other Knights led Keran away, Cullen turned his attention on the man who had brought him in, still avoiding looking at his eyes, determined to get through at least this conversation. He drew up alongside him where Carver was watching Keran’s retreating back, and then cleared his throat quietly. At Carver’s side, the mabari that had followed him up the coast gave a quiet whine.

“I have told the Knight-Commander of your service,” he said softly, and Cullen gave a quiet sigh.

“Oh, more attention…That’s just grand.” The boy was not so easily sold on this one, it appeared, but from what they had found down in that cavern, the boy had used Templar abilities to tear through those mages, and Maker only knew where he had learned them. There was more to this Carver Hawke than met the eye, he knew. He considered the boy, who finally gave a sigh.

“Do you actually feel like you’re accomplishing anything?” Carver asked him, and the question felt…an odd one. Ser Thrask had informed him of Carver’s assistance in bringing in another mage, and his association with Ser Emeric in his search for Mharen. Carver Hawke, it appeared was a mercenary, a refugee from the Blight, that had made his way doing odd jobs and was on first name terms with Guard Captain Aveline, who had also, incidentally spoken of him in…guarded but mostly positive terms. The thought of this man having training with a sword in the manner of Templars was…strange at best, and the idea of his being able to perform some of the Templar abilities in a fight with blood mages was equally difficult. If it had not been for his youth, and for the way he found himself drawn to the Order of late in both task and acquaintance, Cullen might have considered him a possible runaway, a deserter who was just living on what scraps he could get now. 

But that was not this man before him. He was principled, and wary – certainly – but capable. And there was nothing about him that felt like lyrium or magic or anything else.

Cullen did not believe in luck, but he had come to believe very vehemently in the Maker’s will, and perhaps that was what this was. He might lose Keran, and that would cause no small upset to his recruit roster, as well as put the others on the guard. The boy was, after all, promising. But perhaps, just perhaps, he might gain another recruit, of equal talent. Or better. 

Carver Hawke had not jumped to conclusions as his other recruits had. He had shown himself capable against blood mages and Abominations already. He knew the sword techniques, and apparently some of the other skills. And he had a brain. He could think. 

Cullen wanted him in the Order. But he was not going to push. 

So the question then was one he handled carefully. Recruiting was never an easy thing, and especially so in Kirkwall. He picked his words with a certain amount of awareness. 

“The Templars are not a good choice for anyone who requires a strong sense of achievement,” he said, voice quiet. “It is a losing battle. Every day, new mages are born in Thedas. Every day, those born a dozen years ago come into their power. The best we can do is contain the threat, and recruit more to fill our own ranks when they’re empty.” Carver did not seem particularly pleased with the result, though Cullen himself could not puzzle out why he thought so. It was still…very difficult to look at the man. Those eyes still haunted him. 

He could see his reticence, and so gave a quiet sigh.

“It used to be,” he said softly, “that Templars were welcomed wherever they went for defending people from dark magics. Now the townspeople are as like to slam their doors as offer us a bed. The image of the poor, chained apprentice is a powerful one, and one the mages are more than willing to exploit. That does not make it always true.” He sighed, and then beckoned instead towards the steps where Ser Thrask was emerging, and then he reached into the pouch at his belt, drawing forth some of his own gold, which he pressed into Carver’s hand.

“For your service,” he said simply, then gave the mabari’s head a small scratch too. “There’s more if you’re willing. Ser Thrask has been tracking a group of apostates.” The look on Carver’s face at that, Cullen could not read. Instead he gave him a quiet nod, and then turned away, heading back across the square. Whether he took the job or not would be up to Thrask now, who had informed him that he was getting close to his targets. This Carver Hawke was good at finding people. He’d make for a fine mage hunter if he wanted the job. But small steps, a little at a time. For now, he had to contend with Keran.

He did not like the sound of that one bit.

***

He had been gone all day. The concern on Sidonie’s face was leaving furrows across her brow as she paced, not because she thought he was in trouble, but because this was not like him. Carver did not just run off, disappear into the darkness. In fact, if a visit to the Hanged Man had not given her news that he had run off with Isabela and Varric on another manhunt, Sidonie herself would have been absolutely livid, and engaged in a manhunt all her own. As it was, she was simply concerned. Kirkwall was dangerous, and it had hit Carver harder than the rest. He had told her once he had no place here, told her he needed his own room to grow. She wanted him to have that, but she was frightened of just where that was taking him.

She had spent her day trying to coordinate a few other jobs, all without luck. Most of the places that were good for work were just dry on it at the moment, and while she was struggling to keep up with paying down Gamlen’s debt, she was sure they were close, so very close, to making the payments they needed for this expedition.

_Maker, just give me one chance, and also bring Carver back home safe._ If he didn’t return, then Leandra…

No. No he would be back. He would be fine. She had to believe it. She had let him go that morning, early that morning, and now she was afraid because she knew what her Mother would say if something did happen to him.

_It’s all your fault._

When he did finally appear, it was well into the evening, and dusk was settling, and Sidonie had had next to no luck. He made no explanations. Instead he quietly dropped a few more coins into the pouch they were keeping hidden from Gamlen with the rest, and at her curious look just shook his head. 

Fine. If he was going to keep secrets, so be it. At least he had not spent it. She did not like the idea of Carver getting involved in things alone, though. She was worried he had gone crawling back to Meeran for it, and that…well…

_No, it’s fine. He earned it, that’s all. A surprise job. Doesn’t matter where. We do it for us. We do it for the family._

Everything for the family. What little of it remained.

With his added coin, they were still short, and Sidonie gave a quiet sigh, counting it out where she sat crosslegged on the floorboards with him. 

“Still not enough,” she finally admitted after the third time counting to make sure. “Varric said forty. We’re still short.” She didn’t know what to do about it, not with no one taking the bait.

“Can we borrow it?” Carver asked, cross-legged in front of her. “We’re so close. We wouldn’t need much.”

“From who?” Sidonie said softly.

“We know the Prince of Starkhaven and the King and Queen of Ferelden, the Viscount, the Guard Captain, and the Seneschal, and no one can loan us a little bit?” Carver said, the irritation thick on his face. “We could take this and go, give up on everything and just…leave.” But no. He didn’t mean that. Not really. She could see it in his face. Instead she gave a quiet look, expression severe.

“Well, there is one more option,” she suggested, slowly tucking all the coins back into the pouch. “That woman from the other night. She asked us to meet her tomorrow.” 

“The Chantry Sister? Sister, no.” 

“We don’t even know what she wants!” Sidonie said. Carver’s look was flat.

“What if she recognizes us? What if she was there that night, the night that we…you know?” Yes. She knew. It was a risk, that was true. They had been forced into that encounter. But there were no options, and that woman had been looking to hire someone to guard someone fleeing the city. Who better at fleeing the city than they?

“I can earn a little more,” Carver said. “Tomorrow I have a job…”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. No this one…this one is for me.” He gave her a troubled look. She considered him with quiet eyes and a little hurt expression, but let it go. Alright then. But she was still going to worry. “I’ll do that, and then we’ll go and see about this…this Chantry woman.” There was a look of resignation there upon his voice now, and clear on his face. “And if we can do the work then we do it and just be done with it.” 

“Done,” she said softly. There was more, of course. Athenril’s boy, which Sidonie might be able to get some gold for finding, and the Chanter’s Board might have new offerings on the morrow. “We’re only a little short. Once we have the funds, we can get the rest to Varric and make the arrangements.” 

That was the plan then. That settled that. And perhaps, if they were lucky, Mother’s audience with the Viscount might get them back the estate, and they could find some goods to sell, to pad their coffers. It was the best they had for now. 

They could just run, yes. But that meant a lifetime of living like this, always afraid, and fleeing, and both of them had done a lifetime of that already. No. This was it, this their big chance. They would seize upon it. 

“Be careful tomorrow,” Sidonie said softly, and then drew the drawstring tight to the pouch. Whatever this thing you’re doing is, just…be careful.”

“I will,” he said before pushing himself up and reaching to set aside his sword as Mother called them out into the little living room for something to eat. Sidonie was only half-convinced she believed him.

***

The idea did not appeal, not really. In truth, when Ser Thrask had asked him to help bring in a number of escaped mages, Carver had absolutely been inclined to say no. He couldn’t. Not after counting the money and finding themselves still so short. This would push them into the final amount, and with it perhaps give him the leverage he needed to just keep Sidonie safe. As much as Mother might like to think it, there were too many people who know that Sidonie was an apostate for her to ever be truly safe there, estate or not. She could not simply live as a recluse, locked away all her life. Aside from Meeran, Anders, and Athenril, there were any number of people they knew who were aware of her magic. 

No, they needed a shield, a buffer, a way to manage this. And Ser Thrask…Ser Thrask was the man to do it. Ser Thrask had kept his own daughter safe. He could keep Sidonie safe. And this…this was the cost. 

But the idea of ringing up a number of escaped Circle Mages hiding out in smuggler’s caves out in the Vimmark Foothills was not an appealing one. As Carver made his way up the path, his expression was severe.

“Remind me again,” the dark tones of the elf in his wake said, “why we are hunting down mages when your own sister is an apostate?” Carver had only agreed to take Fenris at Sidonie’s insistence. In truth, he had agreed to take someone, but the elf that wanted all mages locked up seemed the best bet in truth, and Carver had not wanted to get Varric or Isabela any further involved in any of this mess. Anders and Merrill were absolutely out, and since the issue was a Templar matter, so was Aveline – not that he would ask Aveline for her help anyway. 

He glanced back with a soft sigh.

“Because it might keep my sister out of the Gallows,” he said, and Fenris gave him a quiet look, before Carver turned away again.

“They fled from Starkhaven,” Fenris said simply. “They burned the Circle there.” There was a quiet moment of confusion before Carver glanced back, expression clear.

“How do you know that?” Carver had not told him that part.

“I hear things,” the elf admitted. “The Prince in the Chantry received information. There was an argument in the square.” Carver supposed that at least was one way to get news: live up the steps from the Chantry itself. 

“If there’s a way to handle this, I want it handled. If it looks like I’m helping, they might leave Sidonie alone.” He sighed and then looked back to the trail. “Why haven’t you turned us in yet?”

“I still owe your sister a debt,” Fenris replied simply. “And she is not Danarius.” It was the best answer Carver was going to get, so he accepted it, reluctantly, because nothing else was forthcoming. 

They walked only a short distance further before Carver caught the glistening armor of a Templar standing before a cavern in the sandy dirt. He recognized the red hair, and the goatee, and relaxed a little.

“That’s the man we’re looking for,” he said, and then trod up the last of the path, as Ser Thrask caught sight of them. The man considered him a moment, then the elf at his side, before giving a small nod.

“Serrah Hawke,” he greeted simply. “I was not sure you were coming.” 

“Then why did you come here first?” Carver asked, expression wary. If he had not expected help, how could he have hoped to do this alone. Thrask’s look was somber. He sighed and considered them both a moment.   
“There are reinforcements on their way. The other Templars know they are here. From what I’ve been able to tell, there are a number of apostates hiding in those caverns. I was hoping you might speak to the group, convince them to surrender peacefully before my fellow Templars arrive.”

“And those Templars intend to do worse than recapture them?” Fenris said in a flat tone – his specialty. Ser Thrask gave a low hiss through his teeth.

“They are led by a man called Ser Karras. He is a Knight-Lieutenant, a great crony of Meredith. Should he find apostates hiding from pursuit, Meredith will consider him justified in murdering the lot of them.” For a moment they were both silent, and Fenris’s gaze was dark, and then Carver drew a breath. 

So it was in his interest then to prove that he was not like Ser Karras. This was a man who would string Sidonie up if he caught her, and that…that meant foiling him now mattered. If Carver could convince Ser Thrask that he was a man to be trusted, then if the worst should happen – and he was starting to fear it would, what with the ongoing investigation into the Chantry and their connections with others like Feynriel, Meeran, Athenril, Anders, and Merrill – then at least he could influence what happened. He could help her. Save her. 

More than you could do for Bethany. 

That was what it was, in the end, this desperate need to do better. Sidonie was older, but she was still his sister, and he…needed to protect her, even when she was the cause of all his problems. He had promised their father once, long ago, that he would. 

Ser Thrask gave him a wary look.

“These mages have shown they attack Templars on sight,” he said in warning. “You have a better chance than I to convince them they are better off alive in the Circle than free and dead. If they have not surrendered by the time Ser Karras arrives, this will be a bloodbath.” 

That put it very clearly then. There really was only one option. Carver glanced to Fenris, and the elf just me this gaze.

“If they resist,” Fenris said, “I am not responsible for their deaths.” No. He wouldn’t be, would he? Carver gave a sigh.

“Fine,” he said, and then adjusted the sheathe at his back. “Just…hold him off, if you can. I don’t want to get caught up in there.” And then he plunged into the cave.

Within it was dark, and the soft dripping of old water seeping through the stones was the only sound. But they were there, somewhere. He believed Ser Thrask on that count at least, and that made him wary. Fenris at his side looked grim, and as they walked, Carver watched the other man draw his sword. He would not, not yet, it was too threatening, and yet he was sorely tempted as he made his way deeper in.

“Hello?” he finally found himself calling. He would never find them if they were hiding, and they would know he was there anyway. Best to start the conversation before he got within range of a destructive spell or some such. “My name is Carver! Carver Hawke! I’m not a Templar! I’m here to speak with you!” 

For a moment there were no sounds, no signs of life at all. He did have a flicker of hesitation that maybe this was not the right cave. But then he heard the scuttling of feet, and a young man, younger than he, emerged from within the cavern. At the sight of Carver, something in the boy eased, and he hurried forward, nervous but relieved at once.

“Maker’s blessing,” he declared, “I thought I was going to die down here in this…this tomb.” Carver blinked, wary of traps, but the boy seemed guileless. “Are you with the Templars? Please, I need to go back to the Circle. I never wanted to get involved in this.” 

“Alright, calm down,” Carver said, putting up a hand. “Tell me how many of you are here. Who leads you? Who are you?”

“I…I’m Alain,” the boy said. “Decimus leads them. It was his decision to run. He kept saying the Templars would label us blood mages, and why not use it if its our best tool?”

“Typical excuse,” Fenris spat, shifting his sword in his hands. Alain put up his hands.

“No, no, I didn’t want that! He slit his wrist, and the magic…it rose from the blood. I…ran. Decimus is wrong. Blood magic is a work of evil, not just a power the Templars keep from us for spite.” Carver gritted his teeth. Blood mages. Again? Was all Kirkwall drowning in blood? He drew a slow breath, glancing back to the boy.

“Decimus said with our phylacteries gone, no one could find us,” Alain added fearfully. “I think…maybe _he_ set the fire. I’ve been at the Circle since I was six; I’ve heard about demons, blood magic…They warned us, but I never thought I’d see it. The rest of them…they’re still following Decimus. ” Carver reached to run his hand over his hair a moment in thought, then motioned back along the cavern.

“Run that way,” he said simply. “At the entrance to the cave you’ll find a Templar, Ser Thrask, waiting. You’ll be safe with him.” A mage that surrendered would be safe from Ser Karras. 

Alain did not need telling twice. He took off running, and Carver reached for his sword.

“Blood magic,” Fenris hissed. Carver just gave a low hum of agreement. He was getting pretty tired of it himself.

At the end of the cavern, the tunnel opened up into a wide chamber. The first sign of the mages there was a strange sensation, that odd heartbeat feeling again that Carver was now getting far too sick of feeling. He gritted his teeth as they emerged, the one at their fore an older enchanter with a scraggly beard and long blond hair. He took one look at them and scowled.

“They’re here. The Templars have come to take us back to the Circle.” Carver gave him a flat look. At Decimus’s side, a woman with a soft brown pigtail and eyes that glittered like the sea tightened her grip on her staff, but her expression was wary. 

“Decimus, no, stay your hand. These are no Templars.” 

“What do I care what shield they carry. If they challenge us - !”

There was a moment where Carver’s sword seemed to fly, ringing from its sheathe as the magic billowed, that sharp heartbeat pulse that rang in his head, and tugged at him.

And then Fenris was moving, a blur of light, lyrium that seemed to sing glowing bright through his body. Only a few of the mages sided with this Decimus. The rest fled at the sight of blood magic clashing with lyrium as Fenris’s blade slammed into Decimus’s staff, shattering the spell he was trying to wield. Carver was moving then too.

There was a desperation in it. Carver was not there to fight, and he wanted this over as quickly as possible. The other mages were not using blood magic – none of them tried. But this Decimus, he was, and he was risking them all in the purpose.

Fenris’s fist found his heart, brutal and quick and done, crushing it within his chest before his gauntleted arm emerged, dripping blood. And then the elf scowled at the rest.

Carver put out a hand.

“Wait! Stop! Truce!” he called. And for a tense moment, he was not sure they would listen.

And then the woman who had spoken before slowly drew forward, an expression of disbelief thick on her features as she quietly sank into her knees before his body. Carver knew that look: loss and pain. They had been close then. 

Closer than the others. He gritted his teeth, chest rising and falling a little, and then shook his head.

“Just…wait,” he said again, softly. “We came here to talk.”

“You killed him,” the woman said, her eyes full of quiet, unshed tears. “Oh Decimus, you should have listened to me, love.” She bent a little, and then looked up, her eyes distraught. “How could you do it?”

“You think he was planning on using that magic to serve me tea?” Carver snapped back. The woman gave him a hurt look, and he regretted the words, but not the actions. The man had attacked him.

“I warned him,” the woman said quietly. “I told him once he marked himself as a blood mage, that was all anyone would see.”

“Are we supposed to believe,” Fenris said darkly, “that _you_ , any of you, had no part in his actions?” The other mages were watching them with wary eyes. The woman wet her lips.

“I swear to you, I have had no truck with demons,” she said, expression fierce. “Please, we only want our freedom. Without your help, the Templars will execute us all for Decimus’s crimes.” Carver gave a quiet shake of head.

“I won’t let that happen,” he said, “but you don’t have a choice.” He was not going to start killing Templars to help them. He couldn’t. Not with Sidonie so exposed. Not with his Mother to look after. 

And Ser Thrask was a good man, he knew it. He just had to convince them.

“I am trying to save our lives, not throw them away,” the woman finally said, glancing to her fellows. And then she gave a look of despair back towards Carver. “We will come with you,” she said, “but please, don’t let them harm us.” Carver gave her a quiet nod. On that front, he promised. And so too had Thrask.

He watched as the others gathered their things, sullen and defeated. And then the woman, Grace she said her name was when he asked, ushered them towards the entrance with a final look Decimus. Her magic flared, only briefly, and then the flames engulfed him.

“He deserved better,” she said softly, but left it then at that.

But things were not so easy once they were outside. Their timing was impeccable, and by that he meant impeccably bad, because as they emerged from the cave, a small group of Templars was also making its way up the hill, and saw them.

Ser Thrask gave a defeated look. It had taken too long. Carver, kicking himself, exchanged a look with the Templar before sighing. He should not have wasted so much time speaking with Alain. 

“Thought you weren’t coming today,” the man at the front, Ser Karras, with a rather ridiculous beard, said, his eyes hard and cold. “You shouldn’t lie, Thrask, I know you’re soft on the robes.” Carver tensed. That got the attention of Ser Karras, who glared him down over his hooked nose. “And who is this, then? Now you require mercenaries to carry out your duties?” Carver let out a low breath and Fenris rolled his shoulders, disliking the man’s tone. 

“This is the man who brought the mage Feynriel to the Circle. I hoped he might help do the same with these mages. Peacefully.” Ser Karras gave a mocking little bow, and a snarl.

“Well. Much obliged,” he sniffed airily, “now lets take these demon-worshippers to the chopping block. Knight-Commander wants them executed before Orsino hears about it.” The outrage was immediate.

“No!” Carver caught Grace tucking herself behind him. “And you wonder why we fear them?!” If it was true, if that was Meredith’s command, things were even worse than he thought, and yet…surely with Thrask there that was not the way it was. He believed he could even convince Ser Cullen to simply take in these mages. That could not be right. This Ser Karras was full of shit. Carver glared.

“Thrask.” The name was sharp and cutting, and Thrask responded.

“The Circle,” Ser Thrask said, “is a sanctuary, not a prison! If you kill these people, I will see you disciplined by the Divine herself.” 

“Knight-Commander says no rebel robes get to preach to the tame ones,” Ser Karras said darkly, unconvinced. Carver shook his head, expression angry. 

“Are you truly going to send us off with this monster?” Grace asked. Carver let out a sigh.

“No. But you will go with Thrask.” His look was severe. Ser Thrask gave a quiet nod. Grace hesitated, then sighed.

“You seem a decent man, Templar. I must place the lives of all these people in your hands.” 

“Don’t count on him being around long enough to help you, sunshine,” Ser Karras said, and his look was equally threatening. Thrask just gave a quiet bow, a solemn promise.

“I will do all I can. I swear you this.” Carver glanced after Ser Karras, who was exchanging a few orders with the other Templar men. Carver himself gave a shake of head.

“Your duty,” he reminded them, “is to protect mages from themselves. They could have run away. These ones did not fight me. If I hear anything going awry, I will speak to the Knight-Captain.” Grace gave him a dubious look, but it was the best he had. Well…that and an escort.

So escort them he did, keeping an eye on Ser Karras the whole damn way, a sullen Fenris at his side. Ser Thrask and the mages stayed close together, but eventually they made it back, and by the time they were done, a few of the Templars were watching Carver with quiet eyes, as if they were not sure what to make of him. He did not like that, not one bit. But then…there was no choice.

“I can’t believe you got Grace to turn herself in,” Alain said quietly just a little ahead, expression sad and soft. Grace, ahead of him just glared back.

“You should have killed us in those caverns.” She had nothing else to say to him. 

Thrask gave him a quiet look, his expression discontent, but in the end, as they ushered the last of the mages through the Gallows gates, and he pressed some coins into Carver’s hand, the only thing he could add was a simple solemn regret.

“The Starkhaven mages, here without bloodshed. I wish this felt like more of a victory.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ABOUT CARVER AND TEMPLAR MAGIC  
> Carver comes from a magical bloodlines on both sides. While he himself is not a mage, he does have the workings of an absolutely brilliant Templar. The Templars train long and hard to become full knights, and this means practicing their abilities, even without Lyrium. Alistair actually exhibits the same ability to use Templar skills like smites in DA:O, and this without the use of lyrium, which he himself said he had never taken. But Alistair also comes from magical bloodlines. His mother, Fiona, is the Grand Enchanter by 9:41 Dragon of all the Circles of Magi. We learn in descent that lyrium is Titan's blood, and so effectively all Templar abilities come from a form of blood magic. For those people that have magical bloodlines already (and many Templars are Chantry orphans who are likely also the progeny of mages taken away at birth because mages are not allowed to raise their own children in the Circle), there's reason to believe these seemingly magical abilities do absolutely come from latent abilities. Carver might not be a fireball hurling, shield making type of mage, but he does have some ability. So what Carver does here, and what Cullen references, is smite these mages. It was the same thing that allowed him to break the compulsion Idunna tried, and why she was surprised (something which any Hawke can do in that scene). Carver is using templar abilities. He just doesn't know that is what they necessarily are. 
> 
> I've laced hints of this throughout the story. As early as the very first chapters of this book I have referenced how Carver can feel a difference between Sidonie's magic and that of others, and that it just registers on a different level for him. Fundamentally that's all part of this too. So...there you have it, for those wondering. :)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie agrees to help Aveline and one of the Silver Knights with a matter of diplomatic importance; Anders sees a familiar face and realizes he can't leave an old life entirely behind; an attempt to free a Qunari mage does not go as expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome :)  
> Check me out on 

She was nervous as she made her way up the steps to Hightown. There was always a risk, the higher one walked in Kirkwall, of being noticed. It was easy to get lost in the dredges of Lowtown, and in Darktown you could entirely disappear, but Hightown was full of nobles and Templars and officials, and any one of them might have seen her before, might recognize the look on her face, and put two and two together.

They were still searching for the dangerous apostates that had hit the heart of the Chantry itself, she knew. The word was still all over Lowtown. She knew as well that Aveline was aware of what she could do, and in the pit of her stomach she felt like maybe at least in this her luck had run out. She was concerned that the paper delivered that morning, the summons to speak to the Guard Captain directly – not Aveline, the Guard Captain – would prove to be the undoing of all of that. 

She would have taken Carver if she could, but he was still gone, had been all morning, and she didn’t know where he had gotten to, or even if he would tell her. He had been so secretive about it the night before. She was not sure yet if he was even planning on being back in time to help with that Chantry Mother’s proposal later on, or if they needed to still take that job at all. She was worried, and worry made her anxious. 

_I only have one job here, and that’s protecting my family. It’s no good if I can’t even find one of them._ She shoved the thoughts away, along with the self-blame, and told herself that it would be alright, that Carver would be fine. If anything, she was the one in danger, and she knew that.

_He is my little brother. I just want to keep him safe._

That was hard, and it always had been, but it felt even harder now. She was not making it easier. Neither was he. 

She slipped up the steps, navigating a contingent of guardsmen warily, uncertain whether or not those were ones that Aveline fully controlled or not. Aveline herself had been engaged in an attempt to root out corrupt elements within the guards since the moment she had first wrested control from Jeven, but thus far, with limited resources, it had been a difficult fight. The events with Feynriel and the Magistrate’s son Kelder and Saemus’s disappearance had been more than enough to sell Sidonie on the idea that the guard was not to be trusted, whether Aveline was in charge or not. She climbed the last of the steps to the Viscount’s keep and then let herself inside. 

There was a strange sort of buzz about everything. People were wary, and there were glances in the direction of the guard barracks from time to time. Something was certainly going on, and she did not like being summoned into the center of it. She slowly climbed the steps, resisting the urge to draw the halberd staff from her back, and then pushed her way through to the barracks themselves. 

The first sight was Donnic, who gave her a quiet nod and then motioned towards the office where Aveline was standing. Sidonie gave him a wary look, but his expression betrayed nothing, and so she crossed to the door before pushing it slowly open. 

Within, Aveline was seated on the front of her desk, arms crossed over her uniform. Before her, in shining Silverite, was a woman with dark hair and dark eyes, who glanced to Sidonie a moment, raising her chin. Sidonie had never seen her before in her life. 

“Guard Captain,” she said softly, greeting Aveline, who gave her a sidelong glance and then drew a breath.

“Hawke. Glad to see you got my message.” Sidonie shifted, eyeing her up.

“Yes, and the purpose of that was?” she prompted. Aveline motioned for her to shut the door, and Sidonie did so, wary again, before settling her own hands on her hips.

“This,” Aveline introduced, “is Sergeant Joanna Maverlies.” 

“I’m in charge of the Silver Knights out of Vigil’s Keep in service to Warden-Commander Eideann Cousland,” she reported, her voice thick with Fereldan. Sidonie blinked a bit confused, and her face showed it, because Aveline pushed herself up. 

“Hawke, I need your help again.” Sergeant Maverlies gave a solemn nod. Oh, so they had actually discussed it.

“I haven’t seen Lady Eideann – Queen? – Warden-Commander – since she passed through Lothering just after Ostagar,” Sidonie reported simply. “I don’t know how I could be of much help to her over here, if that’s why you’re here. Unless she’s looking to give me a knighthood for a bar fight – ”

“Sorry, what?” 

“So, not that then.” Sidonie sighed, glancing back to the Sergeant. “Look, I haven’t seen Eideann Cousland or…Warden-Commander, or…Queen Whatever she is in over a year. We met once. I gave her a warning, and she gave me one. That’s all I know.” Sergeant Maverlies gave a soft sigh.

“This is less about her and more about your own connections.” Sidonie narrowed her gaze, but the Sergeant gave a little shake of head. “I am here hunting those who stand in opposition to the Fereldan crown, guilty of plotting treason.” That was serious, and a little bit of a reassurance for her, since Sidonie had been assuming this was the end for her, that she would be questioned, or worse. But the idea that people were plotting treason…?

“I thought they dealt with Loghain,” she said, her expression severe. She remembered the man had pulled his troops back, abandoned Lothering. She had been no friend to Loghain. Sergeant Maverlies gave a low sigh.

“Queen Eideann dealt with a number of rebels in Amaranthine shortly after the Blight while tracking darkspawn.” Something fixed in Sidonie’s mind. Amaranthine. She was sure Anders had said he had been in Amaranthine. “They were dispatched by an elven assassin, after Eideann herself was poisoned, but her reign has remained controversial, and all things have backlash. Many in Ferelden consider the Queen a hero, and love her, but there are always those who stand to lose.” Sidonie glanced to Aveline who gave a soft sigh.

“Alright, so what does this have to do with me?” she finally asked. Aveline pursed her lips.

“We uncovered a plot in Amaranthine, funded by those who are unhappy with the new regime. Kirkwall has been instrumental in reparations after the Blight, which has been a controversial move at best, and not well supported by all levels of government. There are those in Kirkwall who think the City has done enough for Fereldan,” Maverlies explained. “Kirkwall has been shipping foodstuffs through ports like Highever and Denerim and Amaranthine. These nobles have been paying raiders to sink ships. When this was uncovered, the nobles fled across the sea, and are now harbored here in Kirkwall.”

“I can’t track nobility, Aveline, not without causing a stir. I am Fereldan,” Sidonie said.

“No, no, we’re not asking you to track the nobles. We want your help with the raiders.” There was a pause a moment, and then it made sense why Aveline had sent for her, what it was she really wanted. Or who. 

“Isabela.” Aveline gave a slow nod. Sidonie drew a breath. “And if I do this, if I find this, what do we do about the nobles?” Maverlies crossed her arms as well.

“We have four we know are in the city somewhere. The first is Lady Leah Packton, daughter of the late Liza Packton, who was killed after she was discovered plotting to murder the Queen. Queen Eideann deemed the plot a forfeit of the lands, and presented them as a gift to another of the nobles. Lady Leah has been entirely disenfranchised, rightfully or not, and feels that keenly.” She drew a slow breath. “The next two are Lords who fled Denerim after the uprising in the Alienage resulted in the death of several elves.”

“An odd time to flee,” Aveline said sharply. “Most nobles would not consider that an ample reason to run.”

“They were responsible,” Maverlies explained. “They were cohorts of Arl Urien Kendalls’ son, Vaughan. The Alienage retaliated when the three of them kidnapped a bride and her maids on their wedding day.”

“Maker’s breath,” Aveline spat. Sidonie’s expression soured, but she held her tongue. Maverlies sighed.

“Queen Eideann made promises to gain support for the Blight, rather large ones. She has recently gifted the Brecilian Forest to the Dalish tribes, whichever so wishes to claim them, keeping only Gwaren and the surrounding lands. This has been largely approved by Arl Bryland, who owns those lands. Since Arl Urien died on the way to Ostagar, and his son was murdered when Arl Rendon Howe took position as the Arl of Denerim under Loghain, there was no heir, and the uprising had made the elves particularly solid. I am told that without their help, the city itself would have fallen. Queen Eideann and King Alistair named one of the elves the Bann of Denerim, which is their right, since the Bann was raised by the people, and the seat of Denerim itself was empty. These Lords fled. It appears the new Bann of Denerim was one of those bridesmaids.” Aveline scowled. Sidonie gave a low sigh.

“And the fourth?”

“Bann Ceorlic.”

“Backstabbing son-of-a – ” Everyone knew that Bann Ceorlic and his forebears were no fans of the Theirin dynasty. His father had been murdered in the rebellion for the crime of treason himself, after participating in the murder of Moira Theirin, the Rebel Queen, and the attempted murder of her son, King Maric. Maverlies gave them a knowing look.

“He was, in the end, the only vote in the Landsmeet for Loghain, and the loss of lands to the Dalish has hit him particularly hard.” 

“So raiders meeting with them?” Sidonie asked, clarifying the instructions. Aveline gave a low sigh.

“Not exactly?”

“You can’t send a guardsman?” Sidonie asked her shortly. 

“No,” Aveline admitted. “There are still rogue elements among my men, despite attempts to root them out. This City is corrupt, and that is a fight I cannot win alone. I have reason to suspect that there are corrupt guardsmen involved in these meetings, and that nobles in Kirkwall sympathetic to the cause of ending grain shipments are harboring these traitors to the crown of Ferelden.” Sidonie scowled. Aveline’s look was solemn. “I need to know who those powerful friends are, Hawke. Will you help? Just information. That’s all I need. Find out who it is.” 

It took her a moment to consider. She did know Eideann. The woman had warned her once. And she had met the now King Alistair too. She narrowed her gaze, then pursed her lips.

“Alright,” she said softly. “I’ll speak with Isabela. Maybe she’s heard some news. But Aveline, when this is done…you should really consider hiring Carver as one of your guards.” Aveline was quiet a moment, and then she drew a deep breath.

“Alright, Hawke. I’ll think on it.” 

“Thank you.”

***

Isabela lived in the tavern, same as Varric, and for this particular matter it occurred to Sidonie she might as well need both. She slipped back down the steps, wondering where on earth Carver had gotten to, and crossed the bazaar towards the Hanged Man which was bustling in the early afternoon. She made her way up the steps first towards Varric’s chambers, where he heard that Isabela had drifted further down towards the rooms that Martin was still occupying. That was a stroke of luck. Martin had dealings with the raiders too. If anyone could give him information, it would be the two of them together.

She proved lucky. With Varric in tow, she threw open the door and found Isabela and Martin both huddled together over a chest of smuggled goods, which implied raiders or something of that sort. Since that was what she wanted, she cut straight to the point.

“Hawke,” Isabela said with a small smile, straightening. “Looking for someone, sweet thing?” 

“You. And raiders.” 

“Raiders…hmm…nope I don’t think I can help you.” Sidonie leveled a flat look at her.

“Isabela, I need your help.” The woman gave a soft laugh, then pondered it a moment before giving a soft sigh.

“Alright, Hawke. What needs doing?”

“I’m looking for a place raiders might be meeting corrupt guardsmen.” Isabela and Martin exchanged a look, and then Martine scowled.

“This is how we got our goods this time. The guards have been…letting things slide.” So Aveline had been right and there was something else going on with her guardsmen, a pocket she had yet to root out.

“Do you know where they meet?” Sidonie asked. Isabela considered her. 

“Why?”

“Because they’ve been working with people involved in a plot against the Queen of Ferelden.” Isabela narrowed her gaze, then raised a chin. 

“She won me a cards once,” she said simply, leaving Martin’s goods behind. “You’re in luck, sweet thing.” Sidonie considered her. That was right. She had forgotten, actually, that Isabela had known Eideann Cousland too. “I know right where to find those men. I can get you close. Do you have a plan for when they find you?” 

“Kill them?” Sidonie suggested. Martin cracked a small smile.

“Good answer.”

She had thought so too.

That was how she found herself down at the docks, which in all honesty felt the reasonable place to encounter people who made a living on the sea. She had thought they might be along the coast, further away, but not so. She supposed if you were going to meet with guardsmen, you should do it where someone would least expect to find you, but a warehouse in the docks was so…mundane. 

Isabela, Varric, and Sidonie crept along the outskirts of the ships, and Isabela pointed out a few of the ships she knew flew raider colors. 

“We’ll want to get inside,” she said simply, nodding to the nearest warehouse. “I’ll guess that warehouse is owned by one of those nobles you mentioned.” It was a fair guess, all things considered. Kirkwall was a port town, all said and done, and most of the nobility had made their money on trade where they could. Most of them had warehouses. It was a dangerous bargain, but hardly the first lord to have their own buildings along the docks. 

“An ideas how to get in?” Varric asked with a curious look. “Back door?” 

“Something better,” Sidonie said, and then slipped down along the building, glancing up towards the row of windows in the distance. She considered the wall a moment, the sandstone rough and uneven since the docks were lower than Lowtown, and then slowly shifted to pass her halberd to Varric to hold before motioning to Isabela to give her a boost up. She wound up jumping for the sill, catching it with her hands and hanging precariously for a moment before managing to get a leg on one of the uneven bricks and pushing herself up enough. She hung there then, propped on one of the leg, her angle awkward, and peered into the warehouse. But it was enough. Below, she could see a group of raiders, and a few men who were clad in the armor of Aveline’s guardsmen. That told her all she needed to know. She shifted as best she could, uncomfortable, and fell silent to listen in, holding her breath to overhear it.

“I lost two of my men for damned wheat!” one of the raders was saying. The guardsmen were clearly in opposition, but holding their ground.

“If it flies Amaranthine colors, you sink her.”

“Careful, lickspittle. My men and I aren’t accustomed to taking orders.”

“The Viscount’s pardon comes with strings. If Amaranthine is left unchecked, they will rule the Waking Sea.” That was not good. She already know from Maverlies and Aveline that there were Kirkwallian nobility involved in sheltering the Fereldans, but if his went as high as the Viscount himself? She scowled.

“Piss on that. What do I care?”

“A dozen war galleys hunting your kind to extinction says you’ll care.”

She was losing her grip on the windowsill at that, so she shifted, giving a wince at the weight, and then glanced down. Isabela reached to tap her foot, and she lowered herself down with the last of her strength before tumbling down into the woman’s arms. Isabela grinned at her and Sidonie gave a sniff before drawing back and dusting herself off, reclaiming her staff from Varric.

“They’re in there,” she said, “and working with the Viscount.”

“Shit,” Varric muttered to himself. “What will you do?” Sidonie quirked a grim look.

“Crash the party,” she announced, and then slipped out around the warehouse, headed for the door. At her entrance the raiders did not immediately notice her, and that was good. It gave her the chance to close the door behind her and lock them in. 

She did it with magic, fierce and fast, cutting through some with the halberd blade and ending the rest with fire. More mages could use fire than force, and fire could be explained away as a natural disaster. By the time she emerged, the flames were catching in the cargo, and she was ready to be gone before the flames spread much further. Aveline could cover up that one if she had to, or at least deign not to look into it. There were enough issues in Kirkwall without a warehouse fire turning into a criminal investigation.

She was worried about their words now, about the Viscount’s name, and uncertain whether that was really a pardon from his office, or just a ploy by corrupt guards working with the nobility. She did not know enough to tell, but she suspected, after everything else she had learned about Kirkwall, that she was perhaps already dealing with a larger issue that might go as high as the Viscount himself. 

Isabela and Varric said they would take care of the fire, and so Sidonie went alone back up the steps towards the Viscount’s Keep to see if she could find Maverlies and Aveline and work out what they needed to do next. 

Aveline proved as troubled as she was about the possibility of the Viscount’s involvement. In truth, she was not entirely surprised, because if half of Kirkwall was vehemently against further aid being sent to Ferelden, the Viscount would be hard pressed to appease the nobles. It would be a simple thing to collaborate on a plan to lose some ships, and thus make the entire thing appear too risky to continue, saving Kirkwall grain and seeing to it his nobility were kept happy. But there was more than that, she knew. The Viscount himself could not move without the Chantry, and Sidonie didn’t know what Eideann Cousland’s opinion on the Chantry, or her relations were, Queen or not, but she did know that she had met Eideann first in the company of a Chasind apostate, and that further Eideann herself had been involved in making Anders a Warden, so she was willing to bet things were tense, at the very least. 

She gave a sigh, expression solemn as they worked out their next move.

“I’ll need to get to the bottom of these guardsmen,” Aveline was saying. “The sooner the better, and for that I’ll need help. Donnic and Brennan are reliable. But there’s only so much I can do until these people move, Hawke.” Maverlies looked grim.

“We need to find these nobles, wherever they are hiding, and bring them to justice. If we don’t, they’ll find a new way, a new plan to sabotage Ferelden, and that can’t be allowed to happen.” Sidonie scowled, then raised her chin.

“I have an idea for that,” she said simply. “You have in your Chantry the Prince of Starkhaven. He owes me a small favor.” There was a look of suspicion from Aveline, but then Sidonie sighed. “I dealt with a few mercenaries linked to the coup in Starkhaven. He’s bound to have some noble contacts right? Could he open some doors?” Aveline considered it, and then Maverlies gave a low hum. 

“Perhaps,” she said simply. “I might be able to sweeten the deal perhaps, though…I’m no Ambassador.” She gave a quiet little hum, then her gaze fell on Sidonie. “Are you willing to speak to him now?” Sidonie gave a quiet nod, and Aveline gave a sigh, tryng to decide, then waved it along.

“Alright, do it. I’ll see if we can trace this back through my guardsmen, see if they’ve been seen near any of the estates of late. Hawke,” she paused then gave her a worried look. “Be careful. There’s been…a lot of concerning things lately.” That meant apostate crackdowns, Sidonie knew, but spoken carefully with Maverlies there. 

“I’ll be careful,” Sidonie told her, and Aveline gave a soft nod before letting them go.

Sidonie, Sergeant Joanna Maverlies at her side, made her way back down the steps then towards Hightown, feeling a bit nervous at the idea and a little confused. As they walked, Maverlies solemn and silent, Sidonie was a bit lost in thought, until finally she had to speak. 

“Did you serve at Amaranthine when Lady – Queen Eideann was there?” Sergeant Maverlies gave her a quiet look, then a nod. 

“I was there before she arrived. She did some good work, built the Wardens into a force that held the Keep and Amaranthine both. She’s done a lot. I’m grateful for that. Ferelden suffered a great deal in the Blight.” Sidonie was quiet a moment, thinking, before giving a slow nod. Her footsteps took her towards the Chantry Square, which was nerve-wracking enough but she was there to help, and surely this Maverlies was cover enough. 

The Chantry remained as imposing as ever upon their approach, but there were Sisters gathered in the yard who directed them inside to where they might find Sebastian Vael. Sidonie brushed down her simple leathers as she entered. She had not set foot in there since the incident with Anders and Karl, and she could take in the results now, as if nothing had happened.

Almost. Her eyes studied the split tile, shattered by her force magic, and she gritted her teeth. 

A Sister saw them enter and crossed slowly to them with a graceful little bow of head. Sidonie’s gaze fixed on her, oxblood on cool steely blue. There was a recognition there. She knew this one. The sister from the other evening. Sidonie raised her chin at the question in the other woman’s eyes. 

If she had been in doubt about meeting her before, it was amplified now, and yet she had no choice. She needed the money. So she gave a slow nod. An agreement. 

_We will be there._

The Sister, in her curt, clipped voice, directed them up towards the courtyard where she said Brother Sebastian might be found. Sidonie had not known what she suspected, but Sebastian was clad in the armor of Starkhaven, not a Chantry robe, and he was aiming a bow across the courtyard, aiming and slowly drawing back the string. At his side, a retaining was speaking in hushed tones the news of the day: still no word from the Viscount, difficulty with his cousin, the escapees of the Starkhaven Circle finally being caught by the Templars. Sidonie’s eyes narrowed a the last and she cleared her throat softly. The cough caught his attention, and he relaxed the draw to consider them before recognizing Sidonie.

“Serrah Hawke,” he greeted, a little surprised. “Is there something I can do for you?” His Starkhaven brogue was thick. Sidonie drew a slow breath.

“We need your help,” she admitted softly. Sergeant Maverlies, at her side, gave a solemn little nod. It took the better part of half an hour to explain exactly who Sergeant Maverlies was, and who she represented, but as soon as Sebastian understood, was quiet and solemn and understanding of the situation at hand. 

“You want me to see if any of my allies across the nobility are responsible for sheltering these traitors.” Sidonie was gentle in her choice of words.

“When you put out the call for those seeking to bring justice to your family, I answered it. These people would seek to destabilize another royal power, and if they could they would have the Queen of Ferelden dead,” she said softly. Hesitation flickered over his face, but at last he gave a heavy sigh.

“Alright, Hawke. I’ll see if there is anyone willing to speak to me. If I hear anything, I shall send you word.” 

“Thank you,” Sidonie said, and he met her eyes, holding them a moment, before giving a little nod. His gaze flickered to Sergeant Maverlies then.

“I hope, when you return south, you make this assistance clear to the King and Queen of Ferelden. It would be beneficial for them to know that in this, the Prince of Starkhaven was a friend.” Sergeant Maverlies gave a deep bow.

“Queen Eideann will not forget it,” she said, and sounded so certain that Sidonie believed it true. So did Sebastian Vael, who immediately reached to unstring his bow and then settle his arrow back into the quiver at his belt.

“Then I have some letters to write. If you will excuse me.” 

The women watched him depart with quiet eyes, and then Sergeant Maverlies gave a low sigh.

“Well, now we wait,” she suggested, but Sidonie wet her lips and gave a little shake of head.

“There is something else we should do before I take you back, but…but answer me a question first?” Maverlies gave her a curious look as they picked their way back over the gardens into the Chantry. Sidonie waited until they were outside and her voice would not echo into the cloister before asking softly, “You said you were there when Queen Eideann rebuilt the Wardens.”

“Aye, I was.”

“Are you loyal to them?” Maverlies narrowed her gaze, expression quiet, then drew a slow breath.

“Miss Hawke, I am a Silver Knight, established by Queen Eideann as an order set to defend the Wardens. I am as loyal to them as I can be, to Queen Eideann’s Wardens, not all.” Sidonie hesitated, then said softly.

“What if one of them was here?” she said softly. For a heartbeat there was no reply and then Maverlies drew a solemn breath, considering, before giving a little nod.

“So he fled northward after all,” she finally said, and Sidonie eased a little. “I would meet with him, if you know how to find him? I…am a friend.” Sidonie considered a moment, then gave a little nod. 

“Follow me,” she said softly, before taking the path down towards Lowtown from the Chantry Square. 

***

Anders was not expecting company, especially not Sidonie Hawke’s. But the one who proved more disconcerting was Sergeant Maverlies, who locked gazes with him immediately upon arriving at his door. He felt Justice stir, but then pause, and he was grateful, because Sergeant Maverlies had never done anything to hurt him, or Justice. He was not sure what this meeting was, and he did not know if Sidonie had led them to him or not, but he felt a flash of betrayal that she was the cause for his being there. He had kept her secrets, helped her when it came to certain matters, and he had watched her brother put a sword through a screaming mage…

ABOMINATION.

He ignored the sound of Justice in his head. 

“Maverlies,” he said softly.

“Anders,” she greeted. Sidonie looked uncomfortable.

“Anders, we need your help.” He soured, expression dark.

“My help?” he asked. “You only ever come here when you need my help.”

“That’s not fair,” Sidonie said, expression darkening. “I gave you my help as well.” He sighed and admitted that was true, even if the outcome – no, it still stung. Instead, he swallowed, still nervously watching Maverlies with quiet eyes.

“Why is she here?” Sidonie’s look was soft.

“You were at Amaranthine, yes, serving under Queen Eideann.” He wondered for a moment if that was why Maverlies was there.

“Did she go back on her word then, ask that they haul me in?” he asked Maverlies with accusation. The Sergeant gave a small shake of head.

“You remember Bann Esmerelle?” Ah. Yes. The one who had poisoned Eideann.

“I remember. I’m the reason the Queen is alive,” he said pointedly. Sidonie visibly relaxed. Had she not been certain of it then? He was very confused. “Maverlies, what’s going on?” 

“Anders, there are people in Kirkwall linked to the plot to assassinate Queen Eideann, and they are sabotaging efforts to bring food into Ferelden,” she explained. “People who wanted Eideann dead, and they are here, and they are causing trouble.” That…well it was not what he had expected to hear. He paused a moment, eyes skimming to Sidonie a moment, before he gave a sigh.

He owed Eideann. He did. She had shattered his phylactery, and given him the chance he had never had before. She had stood up to the Chantry when he thought no one would. He was grateful to her, and she was also a friend. And the idea of people here trying to hunt her down…

He could not thank her for making him a Warden, even if it had been the only way to free him at the time. He had earned a sort of purpose there, and he was very grateful. There was a stirring from Justice too, who had at least respected her, and he knew – he knew more than anything – that he was going to help. He gave a sigh.

“What do we know then?” he asked, committing himself. “I’ll do what I can.” Sidonie gave a quiet nod.

“I’ve got people looking for leads, but when the time comes, we’ll be moving fast. I need your help on this one.” 

“You have it.” He considered the infirmary, scant as it was, and then nodded. “Let me close up here, put out the lanterns, and I’ll stick around with you for now.” It was a risk, but one he would take. This was for Eideann. Sidonie gave him a wary look.

“Are you sure?” He gave a nod.

“Yes.” More than anything. He was not grateful for Eideann dragging him down into Deep Roads, against Broodmothers, or battling Architects, and he was not grateful for woodlands full of burning sylvans, but he did owe her. He still did. So this…this would be part of settling that score.

Maverlies looked visibly relieved, but he knew he would pay a price for this. He had intended to disappear, to do so because it was the only way to keep the others safe, to do what he had to do. He could not let it be the case that the Wardens took the fall for his decision with Justice. He did not want that situation settling on the shoulders of those like Eideann, or like Nathaniel, who deserved better than to feel the backlash from his decisions. He gave a low sigh and a quiet nod.

“Alright,” Sidonie said. “Maverlies, get back to Aveline, in case Sebastian reaches out to her.” Maverlies gave a small nod, but Anders was suspicious. Sidonie was trying to get rid of the woman, and he did not know why. At least, not until Maverlies turned after giving Anders a quiet little nod. Sidonie waited until she was gone, and then drew a slow breath.

“I need your help,” she said again, “with something else as well. I have work tonight. An escort out of the city. It might be a mage. I…don’t know for sure. But if you’re going to stay around while we wait on news for these nobles, you’ll have to help with that.” Securing an exit for a mage. Yes. That he could do. 

He gave a small nod, and then a sigh. 

“Done,” he said simply, and meant it. “But I have something else to ask.”

“What?” she asked, leveling it. He gave her a solemn look.

“When this is done, when all of this is done, don’t tell anyone else I’m here.” She gave a small little smile. 

“Done,” she repeated. That was not a promise, but…it meant something all the same.

***

Carver was getting concerned. He had expected to find Sidonie at home, or perhaps in the Hanged Man, but when he had been to check, she had been conspicuously absent. Mother said that she had disappeared sometime in the late morning, off on summons from the Keep. If he had not been with the Templars, he would have been more concerned, but it was now getting dark and he had had no further word. He was worried now. She had never really disappeared without any word at all…

Fenris waited with him, seated on the steps of Gamlen’s apartment, between the rows of jagged spikes that matched his gauntlets and kept the whole thing a jagged, dark picture. The elf seemed troubled, and a little confused, but unwilling to share anything. 

When she finally did appear, on the edge of the street, darkness had settled over the slums and he was beginning to wonder where to begin looking for her. She was not alone either. He scowled as he saw the person at her side. Anders. That Warden abomination. What was he doing there? 

He narrowed his gaze and shook his head, but Sidonie headed him off first.

“Where have you been?” she asked him fiercely. He gave a sigh, shaking his head.

“Doing work. Where have _you_ been?”

“Trying to find the enemies of the Queen of Ferelden,” she said curtly. He gave her a scowl. That was not funny. But then he realized she was not actually joking, and he shook his head. She sighed. “Look, I’ll catch you up later. We have this meeting to make.” Ah yes. The Chantry woman who was looking for an escort. He did not like the idea of that, and he also did not like the fact that she was bringing Anders along with them for this adventure either. Of all the people who should be kept as far as possible from this…

His sister was not always the best at plans. She tried, and she did what she had to. He knew that. But this was stupid. Even he could see it. He had seen the worst of Anders, frightening other mages into becoming abominations. He was tired of the dark side of mages. And he was frightened as well that maybe what had happened to that girl – to Thrask’s daughter Olivia – would happen again to Sidonie. 

He kept an eye on Anders then as Sidonie motioned them down the way towards the back alleys where the Chantry Sister had arranged to meet them. His look was somber and solemn. 

The Chantry Sister had given them the address of a tiny hovel, set into the sandstone walls the same as all the rest of the Lowtown apartments. There was nothing that distinguished it from anywhere else. 

Carver was glad as Sidonie paused, considering it warily. Well, at least she was cautious enough about that at least. He hesitated as well, before she finally set her hand on the door, and carefully eased it open. The interior was dark, but in the back room - one of two, much like Gamlen’s – a quiet little fire flickered. And there, lurking, was the Sister, in the doorway behind her a Templar knight, and at her side a Qunari.

His immediate reaction was rage. He knew a Qunari who had killed an entire farmhold for no reason. The Chantry Mother had left him caged, until he had disappeared with the future King and Queen of Ferelden one day. The Qunari in Kirkwall had given him no reason to change his opinion, cold beasts, unmoving and unforgiving. This one was massive, towering over them, and he reached back for his sword, but Sidonie stilled him with a cold look. 

It was not like the other Qunari though. Great chains bound a massive collar about its shoulders and wrists, weighing it down. Over its eyes was a mask of bronze. Its horns were cracked and damaged. Its mouth was sewn shut. Carver stared. The creature was bound, blinded, and silenced.

The Chantry Sister considered them, then raised her chin, with a look like she had dog shit under her nose. 

“I thank you for coming,” was all she said, before ushering them further inside. Sidonie did not move. The rest took their lead from her, including Carver himself. The Sister gave a petulant little scowl. “This matter is delicate, and I need someone of…limited notoriety,” she explained simply. “I hope that your presence in the Chantry earlier will not cause problems.” Carver’s eyes narrowed. Sidonie had been to the Chantry? They had agreed, after what had happened the night they had fallen into the trap, to avoid the place if they could.

“That depends,” Sidonie said sharply. 

“This cannot be linked to me,” the Sister said simply. Ah. So it was like that then. 

“No Chantry involvement. Fine,” Sidonie sighed. “Tell us what is going on.” The Sister motioned to the Qunari standing a few steps away, her look somber.

“It is still an escort,” she said, “but I think you will agree the nature of the party makes this…unique.” Sidonie shook her head, taking in the sight of the Qunari.

“I’m not doing anything,” she said pointedly, their father’s gaze sliding down to the Chantry Sister again, sharp with intent, “until I know _who_ I am working for?” The Sister sighed, and then shifted, raising her chin again.

“My name is Sister Petrice,” she reluctantly replied. “I have assumed a burden of charity.” Her eyes slid to the Qunari, and then she raised a chin. 

“That is Saarabas,” Fenris said quietly. “One of the Qunari Mages.” Was that a name? Carver could not tell.

“Would even a Templar bind a mage like this?” Petrice asked, circling about the Qunari. “A survivor of infighting with their Tal-Vashoth outcasts. I call him Ketojan, a bridge between worlds.” She sighed and her sharp icy gaze flickered back to them. “The Viscount and others feel that peace begins with appeasement. This mage would likely be returned to his brutal kin. He can serve a better purpose. I want him free.” She let that hang a moment. 

Anders gave a low scowl.

“You don’t just stumble upon someone like this,” he said shortly. Sister Petrice’s eyes narrowed in his direction. For a moment, Carver wished the abomination had just held his tongue. 

“For all their blasphemous certainty,” the Sister finally said, “the Qunari _do_ have deserters. Those who seek freedom are hunted mercilessly.” Sidonie’s look was clouded. He knew she had been hunting them herself before now. She did not look impressed. Carver wanted to leave. 

But he saw the resolute look in Sidonie’s eyes, the determination, and he knew. He just knew. 

They were going to do it. Damn them all.

“We’ll take the sewers,” Sidonie finally said, expression solemn. “He’s too conspicuous for the streets.” No lie that, but at least she wasn’t going to lead him through the streets. His gaze flickered to the Templar in the doorway.

“Better out there than in here with the Templar,” he grimaced. He did not recognize the man, so he had not been at the Gallows at the same time. That…was a comfort, more than Carver cared to admit. He was learning that there were political undercurrents even within the Templars themselves that he was not eager to mess with yet.

“The Undercity then,” Fenris said simply, but his expression was sour. Sidonie gave a soft sigh at Carver’s side, and then a nod. 

“Alright, let’s do this quickly.” She looked at the Qunari again, expression dubious.

It was not until they were slipping through the night down the alleyways that led into the bowels of the city that Fenris at last spoke, and his expression was severe where it landed on Carver. His frustration, it appeared, was directed at him. Carver felt the chill of his gaze. 

“You are inconsistent,” he said shortly. “First you drag me out to contend with renegade mages and bring them back into the fold of the Circle, and now you are trying to set another free? Your sister is an apostate, and yet you keep her out of the reach of the Templars, but all those this morning you had no problem turning over. You gave the elfblooded boy to them, but protect this Qunari, who likely has little desire to be led anywhere, no matter the words of a Chantry Sister. Slaves learn to love their chains.” His voice was cold and dark.

Sidonie leading the way paused, and she glanced back a moment, eyes narrowing.

“What?” Fenris said nothing. Carver drew a slow breath. Sidonie fixed him with a look. “That’s where you were this morning? Bringing in mages for the Templars?” He heard the grating edge of anger lacing through her voice and stilled, expression angry. 

No. No it was not like that. He was doing it to protect her. How dare she just accuse him, as if he would simply turn people in.

“What _is_ the difference to you, Carver?” she shot back, voice rising in irritation. “ _You_ brought in the Starkhaven mages. _You_ did that.” He glared her down.

“I was looking after you,” he spat. 

“By bringing in all the other mages? Like you trade lives around so long as they’re not the ones that matter to you?” Anders spat, and there was a charge in the air that he had felt the last time Justice had emerged. Carver shot him a glare.

“You stay out of this,” he spat.

“Why should he?” Sidonie declared, holding her ground. “He’s right? Where do you draw the line, Carver? What would Bethany think? As if you could ever justify this to her? Working with the Templars? Maker’s blood! You’re one of them. You’re one step shy of all this!” He glared her down.

“I don’t see you making any hard decisions!” he shot back. She glared him down.

A sharp growl cut them off, and his eyes darted to the Qunari, who was still standing, chained, gagged, and blinded, bound to them. Carver gave a low hiss. Sidonie shook her head.

“Carver, why are you here?” 

“I’m looking after you,” he said curtly. Her halberd in her hand flicked a little, like when she was planning on beating him bloody in a display of force. 

“I don’t need your help. Go home, Carver. Now. I don’t want to see you.” He stood a moment, a shot of cold shooting through his arms, down his spine. And then he gritted his teeth.

“Like you’re any better?! Like you have the answers?!” He glared at her, and then took a step back, throwing his arms wide. “Fine. Fine! You want me to go, I’ll go. When Qunari monsters catch you sneaking their people out of the city, don’t come crying to me!” 

There was a noise that echoed down along the sewer tunnel, and they froze, all of them, staring. And then there was a skittering noise, footsteps on the sandstone. 

The argument lay, forgotten for the moment, as Carver hurriedly drew closer again, and down the tunnel they heard the sound of people.

“Carta?” Sidonie asked. 

“Or something else,” Anders said darkly. He looked nervous. For a man who lived in a sewer, he seemed poorly equipped to be living underground.

The footsteps grew louder, and then they appeared, a band of grim-faced, rough thugs who had made the undercity their home. They were filthy, covered in the grime of the sewers, clad in mismatched armor, with ragged facial hair and sunken eyes of those who spent too long in the dark.

“Ah,” one said, drawing close, his voice grating and cold. “Look at this. The Undercity is feared by all, but there’s no shortage of fools with coin looking to test it.” Another shook his head.

“What’s that thing? Collared like a Dog Lord’s bitch?” he asked curtly. Carver saw Sidonie shift, reaching for her halberd staff. He did not want to shed blood for this Qunari, but he would for Sidonie. 

“They some sort of Qunari lovers?” the first snipped. “Maybe we should get rid of you, see who will pay the most for your pet.” The Qunari, Ketojan, gave a low growl through stitched lips.

“I don’t think he likes you threatening his master,” one of the other thugs said. “Maybe we let these ones pass?”

“A voice of reason,” Sidonie said darkly. “What’s he doing with you?”

“Sister.” Carver’s voice was cold and curt, a warning not to antagonize them. The thug at the fore sneered and then spat at Sidonie’s feet.

“Fereldans,” he spat. “You lot think you’re so right, buying up everything, running Marchers like us into our own sewers. Want us bound, do you? Like this thing?” He reached for his knife.

Anders was the first to move, a sharp blast of arcane energy, but he was not alone. The Qunari moved too, and there was a great flash of heat and rage. The damage was absolute.

In a matter of seconds, the thugs were engulfed, and Carver gripped Sidonie’s arm, dragging her back away from the flames as they seared up, angry and burning. There was nothing left of the men that had challenged them, only ash and scorch marks and charred remains. Sidonie stared, and Carver drew his sword.

He had seen fire burn before, including magical flames. Such was Sidonie’s forte after all. But this? This was not even conscionable. 

Sidonie stared as much as he did, and then she tore from his grasp, still angry.

“We get the idea Qunari, Ketojan, whatever, are you trying to kill us all?” she spat, glaring him down. He had almost taken them out with that blast as well. Carver did not trust it. “Maker’s blood, can you gesture or…stomp your feet twice for yes or something?” The frustration in her voice was clear.

“It is unlikely he understands the Common tongue,” Fenris said simple, and Sidonie gave a soft sigh. 

“Fine. Let’s just…get him out of here before he…helps again.”

They had no more trouble along the path then, though there were significant concerns that would not go away. How long untilt his Qunari turned on them. Carver did not want to find out. And so they hurried, as fast as they could, down through the depths and into to lowest reaches of the smuggler’s tunnels, where they emerged on the Wounded Coast.

But when at last they saw the crack of the night sky, stars glittering showing the way, it was not freedom that they found. Instead, they realized that they were not alone.

At the far end, clad in red and black leather, grey skin dark in the evening light, stood an entire contingent of Qunari – no Tal-Vashoth this time. Anders gave a low groan, and Sidonie stared, expression blank. Carver tightened his grasp on his sword.

“Shit.” It was only a matter of time, he supposed, before ill luck caught them. He had known there was something off about this whole damn thing. He had known. He shook his head.

“Sidonie,” he told her shortly. “Stay behind me…” Fenris was at his side as well. 

The first of the Qunari stepped forward, expression narrowing at them all though the bars in a full face massk. His skin was painted red in patterns, and his entire appearance made Carver uneasy. He stared the Qunari down, despite the massive difference in height. Fenris was the one who did the talking.

“Shanedan,” he greeted. The Qunari scowled.

“You will hold, basra-vashedan. I am Arvaarad, and I claim possession of Saarabas at your heel.” There was a tense moment where no one spoke. The Qunari spoke again, as if to press his case. “The members of his karitaam were killed by Tal-Vashoth, but their disposal leads only here, to Saarabas, and you.” Oh no. That…that was bad.

That was a set-up was what that was. Carver shook his head.

“We didn’t kill this mage’s…karitaam,” Sidonie said, struggling over the word, but there was fear in her voice, at least fear that Carver had learned to hear.

“Tal-Vashoth killed them. That battle was expected,” the Qunari agreed simply. “The survival of Saarabas without his Arvaarad was not. I do not know how you come to hold his leash, but you have no claim in the Qun. He will be returned and this crime cleansed.” 

“Maker, what are they saying? They’re going to kill him?” Anders hissed. Carver jammed the pommel of his sword back into Anders’s stomach to silence him with a glare. Sidonie glanced to the Qunari mage, then those sent for him, struggling. He understood. He did. She might think him some sort of traitor, but the choice between their lives and the Qunari’s was a difficult one. They could not fight them all.

_Please don’t do anything stupid…_ he thought. Sidonie drew a slow breath.

“And if he doesn’t want to go back?” she asked softly. The Qunari Mage made no motion. This…Arvaarad stepped forward, drawing from his pocket a wand of bronze lined with runes. At the sight of it, something acted, some magic, and the Qunari mage was forced down to his knees. They all watched, horrified, at the forced submission.

“He has only followed you,” Arvaarad said, “because he wants to be led. He is allowed no other purpose.”

Sidonie shook her head.

“Look, I don’t care to understand any of this, but…someone abused your dead to get you here. Someone set this up.” That was true. Carver was willing to be he had an idea just who that was as well. He felt a flicker of anger.

“No doubt they were cast from your shoulders as you or your partner thieves grew weak,” Arvaarad said darkly. Carver straightened, but the accusation stopped there. “It is a crime whose victims are beyond caring. It will be dealt with, but the greater threat is clear.” His gaze scanned Sidonie and Anders then. “You two are Saarabas.” How he knew, Carver could not say. Perhaps the same way Carver himself could feel magic? “It is my role to secure Saarabas.”

A fight then, in the end, after all that talking. A fight because there was no way Carver was going to see those monsters chain his sister and sew her mouth shut as they had done with the man who knelt in the sands now. He moved first, charging in. 

Arvaarad’s head rolled.

Qunari were trained fighters. They would have had little chance, if not for the intercession of Anders and Sidonie, who together had the power to rain the might of the earth down upon the group that slung at them. Carver felt Fenris flickering through the battle at his side, flitting back and forth and ghosting from one to the other, a dark shadow that cut them down.

By the time it was done, only the kneeling Saarabas remained. Carver, panting softly, blood smeared across his brow, considered him. 

“And this one?” Sidonie put out her hand.

“No. He…was not part of this.” An unwilling player in the trap. Carver lowered his sword.

The Saarabas rose, and Sidonie watched, hand still tight on her halberd staff. Carver stayed close, expression a mask of distrust and concern. And then the Saarabas stretched, reaching up to break the compulsion that had kept him bound. Sidonie hurried to take up the rod that the Arvaarad had used, and then a shockwave of power released, causing her to jump.

Only then – only then – did the Saarabas speak.

“I am unbound,”it said, voice thick as if unused for so long. His mask still held, his lips still sewn, the chains still weighing him down. “Odd. Wrong. But you deserve honor.” Was it an honor then? To have him unbound?

“You are now basvaarad, worthy of following,” the Qunari told them. Fenris crossed the sands to join them, brushing blood from his coat. Anders was watching warily at a safe distance. “I thank your intent, even if it was wrong. I know the will of Arvaarad. I must return as demanded. It is the wisdom of the Qun.”

Sidonie’s brow narrowed.

“I went to all this trouble, and you _still_ want to die?” she demanded. Carver shook his head. The Qunari just reached deep into a well of magic, reserves that had been held at bay for who knew how many years.

“I do not want to die,” he told her. “I want to live. By the Qun. I have chosen. It is bred in the bone.” 

“Existing,” Sidonie said sharply, “is _not_ a choice!” The Qunari’s gaze through the slits in the mask fixed on her and she drew a slow breath. Carver felt the wash of magic and reached for her arm.

There was a spark, a rush of heat, and Carver yanked Sidonie clear, as the Saarabas fixed his final look on them. Through the flames, his words were clear. There were no screams, no grunts of pain as the flames licked at his skin.

“It is the _only_ choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ABOUT AMARANTHINE SHIP PLOTS, MISSING FERELDEN REBELS, AND LOOSE ENDS QUESTS  
> These are four different questlines. With an important worldstate and your decisions you two of four in game, but that didn't make sense for me. Ultimately, there's a lot of complicated interactions at work. It is true that the raiders were sinking ships full of grain flying Amaranthine colors. It's true as well the Viscount's seal was on offer from corrupt guardsmen, which has been a running theme thus far, and something that's really stymied Aveline a lot as she tries to make improvements. These Fereldan Rebels were not randomly placed either. While the game gives them no names, I went back and checked through the options, and came up with four of the best candidates. Lady Liza Packton was killed by Zevran in the tavern for her supporting of Bann Esmerelle. Lady Leah is made up, but since Eideann gave Lady Liza's lands to Ser Derran (and made him a Lord too in Book 5) this seemed like a good connection back there. Not everyone is happy with this. There's obviously also the fallout to contend with on behalf of Eideann and Alistairs' decision to name Shianni Bann of Denerim, and to gift lands of the Brecilian Forests to the Dalish. Bann Ceorlic's ancestors were responsible for the murder of the rebel queen. Maric and Loghain actually killed Bann Ceorlic's father, and so he has been scared of them ever since. His lands borded Loghain's, we are told in DA:O, and this means they're right near Gwaren, in territory that Eideann and Alistair effectively gave away. Bann Ceorlic is the only one who did NOT vote with Eideann in the Landsmeet, meaning he is not her friend. He has every reason to be pissed. The two other Lords are from the City Elf Origin. The story Maverlies says is true in this sense. They were with Vaughan when he kidnapped the girls, and they were NOT in the dungeon at the Arl of Amaranthine's estate. Vaughan is dead (Eideann killed him though everyone assumes this was actually the world of Rendon Howe during his takeover), and those two lords are pretty much hung out to dry at this point. So these four are the trouble-makers I've gone with, to give them a face, and tie things back.
> 
> The woman sent to track these nobles is Sergeant Joanna. We never meet her at Amaranthine, but we do meet Sergeant Maverlies. They don't have the same description or appearance, but frankly Eideann and by extension Nate kept a lot of things steady and stable where they could. Joanna is a first name, but Maverlies sounds like a last name, so I combined the two to give her a bit more connection, and to tie her back too. It makes sense she knows Anders - she worked with him - and that she would be a friend. She also knows Justice, and that matters too. The reason it matters will become clear later. <3 Either way, for story reasons, this feels more cohesive, and having people that actually know and care about Eideann and Alistair (like Anders and Isabela) involved in these plotlines, as well as ex-Fereldan Army soldiers like Aveline and Carver, gives it a lot more weight. I told you these storylines would start to intermingle, and they are.
> 
> Loose Ends with Athenril relates to the Carta, Coterie, and refugee workers. Sidonie has run lyrium for Athenril before, and Athenril herself is likely to want a share of black-market lyrium from the Carta, so it makes sense this is what is on offer here, and why her whole smuggling storyline has always kept hitting back on lyrium, lyrium, lyrium. Sidonie never agreed to work for Athenril in the beginning - they joined Red Iron. But Gamlen's debts to Athenril still stood, and her storylines are too good to avoid, given all they involve. 
> 
> Meeran's Loose Ends plot involves the murder of a nobleman, whose name actually links back to Sebastian Vael's story (we will meet the rest of his family in Act 2 storylines when we're introduced to Sebastian's questlines). The man in question is Lord Harriman, who we did namedrop back in earlier chapters, and possible in Dances 4 right before Eideann went off to Amaranthine, because Lord Harriman has had significant interests outside of Kirkwall. This means he's big in the politics of Starkhaven (he was friendly with Sebastian's mother - or his family was), and has been giving assistance to Ferelden to recover from the Blight, namely by shipping grain. That's where this all ties in. There's nobles standing against Eideann trying to undermine her, allying with raiders and Kirkwall nobles who are not friends with Lord Harriman because he is helping Ferelden recover and succeed with grain shipments. Those raiders are sinking ships, and there's even questions of Viscount involvement, though the guardsmen are definitely corrupt. There's stakes here, in that people are working against Eideann, who characters know, and that ties a LOT together. So...hopefully it helps it all be a little more consistent. :)


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie has a heart-to-heart with Anders; a job for Athenril does not go precisely as planned; Carver pays on to the expedition; Carver finds himself drawn to the Chantry with thoughts of Bethany; Sebastian Vael has news about the treason plot; Sidonie contends with the fallout from Athenril's plot and has to make a hard choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome :)  
> Visit my [TUMBLR](https://higheverrains.tumblr.com) for more content. ~HR

It was not the outcome anyone had wanted. When the Qunari were dead, their charge with them, they had been left with no real options. It was clear, after that, that none of them would be headed back to the Chantry Sister, who had quite obviously given away the information to arrange their little meeting. Sidonie, feeling besieged, glared at Carver for it, even though he could not have known. She was still sour about his disappearing to go doing jobs for the Templars. 

It was obvious they were out of luck on this one, and that they should be grateful they had survived the ordeal at all. Sidonie turned back towards the caves. She was certainly not going in the front gates after everything. Instead she gave a soft scowl and took the passage back.

She was brooding. She knew she was brooding. Everything in her wanted to start a fight, wanted to turn around and deck Carver one that he would not forget. She didn’t have the self control to trust to speaking him, or even seeing him. The very thought he was following her now made her angrier than she could really contain. She reached for magic to let it flicker across her fingers, bouncing away. It wasn’t enough.

By they time they reached the alleys of Lowtown, she was full on bristling. She stopped in her tracks, closed her eyes, dropping the spell, and gave a low growl. 

“Go without me.” Carver looked back.

“Sid – “

“Go without me,” she spat. “I don’t want to be anywhere near you right now, Carver.” Fenris took a step into her peripheral vision and she drew back from him as well. “And you. Get out of here.” Carver glared her down. 

For a moment she thought he was going to fight her, but instead he drew a slow breath, and then his eyes flickered to Anders.

“If anything happens to my sister,” he said in a low, angry voice, “I will kill you, mage.” As if he was her keeper. Sidonie shoved past him and turned up the path, expression dark and angry. What Anders replied, she didn’t know, but when she finally heard him climb the steps to join her, Carver and Fenris were gone, off down a different path. She scowled in their direction. Anders gave her a quiet look, and then he shook his head.

“Don’t say anything,” Sidonie shot back, expression angry. She didn’t want to speak to him. She might be angry with Carver, but she was not Anders’ friend. He had caused problems too, and if the Templars came for her, it would be because of him. She gritted her teeth, instead, stalking down the street and then taking the steps lower down to the docks. 

For a good few minutes he just followed her in silence, until she realized he was actually planning on doing as Carver had said and looking out for her. She gave a soft sigh, drawing a slow breath, and then bowed her head a moment before finding something, anything.

“How could he? To look after me? It’s stupid! Like getting _closer_ to them is going to keep me safe!” She turned on her heel, wheeling on Anders who just gave her a flat look. “What the hell does he think he’s even doing?!” But she was angry because she understood. She understood because she had spent so long just trying to protect him. And it hurt, it hurt more than she cared to admit, to know that this was the best way he could think of. 

He had not even trusted her with the knowledge. He had just gone, done it without thinking, made up his mind that he could do it alone. And then he had taken Fenris – Fenris! – who was the last person who should be involved in bringing in renegade mages. But she was hurt as well because she knew that there was no difference between her and Bethany and those Starkhaven mages he had helped to catch. When they had sent Feynriel to the Circle, it was because he actually needed the help, help which neither Sidonie, nor Merrill, nor Anders could provide, and help the Dalish were unlikely to give him since they had cast aside his own mother just for giving birth to him, and had made to secret of their disdain for humans and their ilk. The thought that Carver had gone and done more work for them, had brought in those that were just trying to stay free…apostates like herself…?

She clenched her fists. It was not safe to use her magic again out there. But she wanted to. She glowered down the steps instead. Her head was hurting, all of it was hurting.

“I just…I don’t even understand what we’re doing, why we’re still here. We should go. We don’t…” She gave a hiss, and then flinched as Anders stepped in a little closer. But it was not in animosity that he had moved. He slowly reached up to brush his fingers over her forehead and across her temples, and then soothing magic filtered in, chasing the pain away and out. Something in her eased. She closed her eyes, frustrated and wanting to cry but refusing to do so, and instead drew another slow breath.

“Better?” he said softly when he was done, and the magic had done a world of good. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, and then then gave a little nod. He let his hands fall away, bringing back the distance warily. For a moment it was just quiet, and then Sidonie glanced to him.

“Were you close? You and the Queen…?” He considered the question a moment, and then pressed his lips into a thin line. 

“Yes,” he finally said quietly. “I think so.” Sidonie gave a quiet look, then shook her head.

“She was reserved when I met her.” He gave a small smile.

“Yes, she was. Everything around her was heavy. But…we met just after the Battle of Denerim, and…she paid a heavy price there. A lot of people did.” A lot of people had, yes. She gave a quiet sigh. People paid the price of living, always and forever. She hung her head and let the quiet words seem back in.

_Existing is the only choice._

She shook her head.

“I don’t trust you,” she finally said. “I don’t know anything about you, except that knowing you is dangerous. The Templars want me dead because I helped you, because I had to. But…I know that you won’t turn me in. You won’t turn anyone in. And…that’s something. Things aren’t the worst so far.” She looked up, oxblood eyes serious as she studied him sidelong. He was watching her too.

“Queen Eideann once said she only ever asked for so far,” he said quietly. “She also said that we must make our decisions every day, to keep our words. It was she who helped me find my phylactery, she who stood up to the Chantry and the Templars at Amaranthine to get it for me. When she pressed it into my hands…she told me to do something worthy of it.” He sighed and shook his head. “She never liked Justice. I think he frightened her a bit. She didn’t really know what to make of him. We found him first in the Fade at Blackmarsh, when we engaged the darkspawn in battle, and…he had taken over the body of a dead Warden. He was as surprised as we to find himself trapped here.” He met her gaze, eyes quiet, as if he were willing her to understand. “The body was falling apart by the end. He did battle at Vigil’s Keep, saved so many lives. By the time the battle was done, the body he inhabited was a ruin. We didn’t know what would happen…would he be freed into the world? Disappear forever? Would he be trapped as that body just…disintegrated into pieces? In the end…in the end he had done so much to save us…we had to save him. Velanna and I tried everything we could. I could not even use my magic to send him back. Time was running out.” He dropped his gaze.

“And then I heard from Karl. I thought if anyone could help, he could, and I needed to help him too. It was not meant to be permanent. It was…a temporary measure until we found a way to separate again. I was just trying to save a friend. I’ve…I’ve never tried to save anyone before…not until Queen Eideann and King Alistair saved me, gave me a chance. She taught me there were things bigger than myself.”

Sidonie’s eyes studied him, and then she gave a soft sigh. He shook his head.

“Your brother has been trying to help you. I don’t like his methods, and I know it frustrates you as well. But his intentions are good, even if he’s wrong. And…and he cares.” She closed her eyes and stepped down the last few steps.

“I know. I just…I don’t want to see him right now. I want to be angry…at everything,” she admitted, and then peered down towards the docks at the far end. She paused a moment, the darkness absolute in some of the alleyways. And then she looked back.

“Anders…when…when we go into the Deep Roads, will you come with us?” He was quiet a moment, and she saw the look of anguish on his face. And then he gave a heavy sigh. 

“Alright,” he told her. “But…but only because I know I can help. And only because I owe you. For…for Karl.” She gave a grateful little nod, and then peered down towards the pier.

“I have some business to take care of,” she said. “You going to come too, or stay?” He gave her a glum little smile.

“I’m going to come too. Your brother, remember?” Of course. 

She knew the dead drop she was looking for, but it still took her a bit of time to find it. All things said and done, Athenril’s boy had at least done a good job of hiding the goods. She dug through the cargo piled high up alongside the back wall of a warehouse until she came across a chest, marked with an elaborate A. A for Athenril. That was the stuff, then. Now she just had to find this boy, Pryce, and make sure he was alright.

It was heavy as she hoisted it up. She only had it halfway into her arms before there was a low hiss from behind the cargo crates, someone giving a soft curse, and then the next thing she knew she was staring down a knifeblade, held in the hand of a boy, who was watching her with frightened eyes after crawling out from behind the stack.

“Put it down,” he told her, but his voice was shaking. “It’s not yours. Just…put it down. Please.” Maker’s blood, this was Athenril’s new boy. He was no criminal. He was frightened and obviously had no idea how to use that blade. If she had truly been trying to rob the contents of the box, he would never in a million years have stopped her. But she was not there for the goods. She was there for him. She lowered the box, narrowing her gaze at him curiously.

“Pryce?” she asked. He seemed startled to find she even knew his name. 

“How do you - ?” 

“Athenril sent me to find you when you went missing,” she said softly. The boy looked more concerned at that than anything else. His did not lower his knife. Instead, he looked about, warily, like at any moment Athenril herself, or maybe the Carta, would show up. 

“The whole thing is a trap,” he said, voice shaking almost as much as his hands. “Please, don’t take me back to her. I didn’t mean to run. Working for Athenril’s the only way to feed the girls.” She slowly set the crate down and gently pushed the knife away. 

“Alright, slow down, we’ll work this one out.” He gave her a look, then Anders another one, and shook his head.

“The Carta…they cut a deal but when it came time to make a trade, the Coterie showed up. They’ve been trying to find me all week, but if I don’t make this trade, Athenril will kill me. Please. My mother was torn in two by one of those big darkspawn. It’s only me and my sisters now.” 

It stung. She thought of Bethany, of what it had been like when they had first arrived, and knew without a doubt that this was a poor life the boy had. But there was nothing to bind him here. Athenril’s reach was not so far, and she already presumed him dead. Existence is the only choice. 

Sidonie slowly reached for the box, and pressed it into Pryce’s hands. 

“This is what we’re going to do,” she said softly. She had never wanted this job anyway. She had agreed to it to help find Feynriel, and now she was going to help Pryce. Athenril had blackmailed her before, and she was not loyal to her. And this time…this time she had a choice. “I’ll let Athenril know about the Coterie. I’ll say they killed you, and took the goods, and the Carta never got it. You’re going to take this, and your sisters, and start a new life outside of Kirkwall, somewhere else.” She gave him a quiet look. “You’re young yet, and strong. There’s always work to be found on farms for a healthy young man.” The boy just stared a moment. 

And then something in him eased.

“My father was a farmer,” he said softly, “before the darkspawn got him. I’d…rather do that than work for Athenril.” Sidonie gave a little nod and he gave a hesitant look. “You’ll make sure he doesn’t come after us?” he asked and she gave a soft nod.

“Yes,” she told him gently. “She won’t come after you.” 

_She’ll come after me if she learns I lied, but she won’t go after them._

In the end, it was right. That was all that mattered. She had to what she could, retain some part of her humanity. She had sacrificed so much of it to protect her own. She was tired. This was just a boy, as old as Carver had been when he went off to join up with the Fereldan Army and squire. Maker’s blood, too young. 

She gave a soft sigh, and then watched as Pryce hoisted the box into his arms and retreated carefully down towards the sewers and Darktown. At least there he could find a way out. 

Sidonie gave a soft sigh, and then looked to Anders.

“I’m not the Queen of Ferelden. I don’t have the luxury of worrying about everyone else. I have to look after me and mine. And that…that is my choice.” Anders just gave her a quiet little nod.

“I know,” he said softly. The mere affirmation was a relief.

***

 

Sidonie found her way home only when she was ready. Carver took a detour instead, to speak with Varric, and he took their money with them, all that they had saved.

He had counted it three times to make sure. Just enough. Just enough to buy their way out. It had to be enough, didn’t it? If it wasn’t…if it wasn’t he only really had one option. He did not want to take that option. 

He was tired. Sidonie was angry for a reason, but he was angry too. He had no strength left to keep fighting the endless battle. Kirkwall was truly the City of Chains, holding everyone back. He wanted to pack everything up, move on, but it would be no easier anywhere else, and at least Uncle Gamlen was here. At least they had a roof over their heads for now. That had to count for something.

But they could do better.

He did not need to speak to Sidonie to know that it was the right choice. He gathered up the last of their earnings, and shoved the maps they had gotten from Anders deep inside his coat, and then he left Gamlen’s house, determined. If this was the only way – and it felt like it was the only way – then that was that. It was right. It was what they needed to do.

He went looking for Varric at the Hanged Man but was told that he would find him up in Hightown, at the Merchant’s Guild. It was where they had first run into him, so Carver made his way up the street towards the great dwarven statues, where he found a bar flanked by a few more statues. Within, there were a fair few dwarves, all of them members of the Kirkwall Merchant’s Guild, and dwarven furniture and specialty , deep in debate with his brother, in the company of a man with sandy hair and beard and a younger dwarf whose big blue eyes were fixed on Carver as he approached.

“We’re going lower into the Deep Roads than anyone’s ever dared. Who knows what we’ll find down there. But that means food and equipment and hirelings. None of that comes bloody cheap,” Bartrand was saying, but as Carver drew close, he looked up, and then made a face like there was shit under his nose. Varric blinked, wary, and then raised his chin.

“Little Hawke,” he greeted, and Carver gave a nod hello before sliding into a seat. He considered them a moment as some dwarven girl wandered over to take an order of ale, before Bartrand waved her away.

“Boy wants nothing. He was just leaving.”

“Bartrand,” Varric chastised. The sandy-haired dwarf leaned in. 

“A pleasure, messere,” he said, apparently missing how tense it was around the table. “Purveyor of goods both common and rare, at your service! And this is my son, Sandal, who is as brilliant an enchanter as you’ll ever find.” 

“Hello,” the pale man said. Even the hair of his head was a light dusting. Carver glanced between them, and Varric gave a wary laugh.

“Little Hawke, these are a few of the folks that will be going on the expedition with us. Serrah Feddic and his son are highly respected appraisers.” Bodahn gave a small smile, confident and sure.

“We shall be accompanying the expedition and providing the needed supplies! It’s all quiet exciting isn’t it?” He had a voice that made Carver think of sheltered men lounging in back rooms who had never seen adventure once in their lives.

Bartrand was staring, his expression dark, and holding none of the pleasantries. Carver drew a breath.

“A pleasure,” he said to Bodahn and Sandal, because his mother had at least instilled him some manners. Bartrand scoffed.

“You again. I already told you no. Find someone else to take pity on you.” Varric gave Bartrand a cool look.

“Bartrand,” he said in a warning voice. “Carver is one of the Hawkes, our future partners.” Bartrand’s look went as stormy as the Waking Sea. 

“What?!” He whirled on Varric. “Partner?! You stupid, nug-humping bird-farmer. Why’d you go promising something like that?!” Varric’s look was cold.

“Because if we don’t get this expedition moving, brother, then we won’t have any profits to argue about, will we?” That seemed to calm Batrand a little, but he just glared back at Carver with more suspicion.

“Do you even have the money?” he growled. Carver drew a slow breath, and then reached for the sack of coins he had brought, setting it on the table with a metallic sound characteristic of heavy coin. Bartrand reached for it, but Carver drew it back out of reach.

“Are we talking a full share here?” Carver said firmly, cutting his deal before paying up. Bartrand crossed his arms.

“As long as that sack has the coin to back it up, sure. You’ll get a full share,” he grumbled. Carver, satisfied, shifted a little, then nudged the sack back across the table, towards Varric, not Bartrand. Varric got the hint and took it up before giving Carver a solemn nod.

“What did I tell you, Bartrand?” Varric said simply. Bartrand sighed, then leaned forward, sipping some foul-smelling ale and wiping his beard on his sleeve a moment before giving a grunt.

“Alright, _partner_ , full share of the profits between you, me, and Varric.” 

“We want half. There’s my sister and I,” Carver said.

“No. We already put in enough money to this damn thing. You get a third.” Carver considered, then sighed. A third of the profits was not as good, but a third of the losses was. So he gave a little nod. 

“Fine.”

“Good.” Bartrand sat back. “Now we just need a descent entrance into the Deep Roads.” Carver reached into his shirt and drew forth the maps, unfurling them atop the table and pinning them down, skimming over the options to work out where they were. Bartrand and Varric both leaned forward. Bodahn made an intrigued noise. Bartrand looked up, eyes sharp.

“There’s three….four entrances into the Deep Roads all in the Free Marches,” he said. “Where’dja get these?” Carver bit at his lip, then gathered up his maps again, folding them neatly away and passing them to Varric too.

“I told you,” Varric said, “that we could find a Grey Warden. Mother didn’t raise a fool. Well…she didn’t raise two of them.” Bartrand scowled and shove at Varric, who avoided the motion and instead settled the maps inside his coat. 

“So now what?” Carver said.

“We just pick the most promising entrance and go,” Bartrand replied. 

“Just like that?”

“Just like that. Caravan’s already bought, this will pay for the supplies – ” His gaze flickered to Bodahn who gave a smile. Bartrand held out a hand to shake. “Wrap up any business you have in the city, my friend. We’ll be gone for several weeks.”

“When we do leave?” Carver said. Bartrand mulled it over.

“Tomorrow afternoon, if I can round up the crew. Most are tided over and waiting anyway. You be here bright and early, and we go.” Tomorrow afternoon. Soon enough. Soon enough to get Sidonie back, to tell Mother, to get everything in order. Soon enough…

They would be gone during Mother’s meeting the Viscount, but the distance would give them a chance to stay safe, and if they came back with the money, they could buy out the debts, and see to it that everything was made right again. No, this was a good decision. Varric gave him a nod as he rose. 

“Tomorrow then,” he said simply, giving all of them a nod. “I will see you all there.”

The night seemed clearer when he emerged, even if it had not truly changed. He could breathe. For the first time in a long time, it felt like he was actually moving forward, doing something, and that something had nothing to do with magic, with criminals, with Templars, or with Sidonie. It was just…moving, making progress in a life. He gave a satisfied sigh, gazing up at the constellations above. 

He was not a religious man. Sidonie was, he thought, though…in her own private way. Bethany had been devout as well, often at the Chantry. For the first time in a long time, he let himself think of her. 

It was painful. Over a year since they had run and still it stang fresh as anything. He felt his eyes cloud with tears, and knew where he wanted to go. His feet found the way while his mind could not, and before he had really made the decision, he was climbing the Chantry steps towards the main cloister.

Within, it was quiet, though he knew catches of the Chant, and the door itself was always open. He had not visited the chamber since their mess with Anders. He did not trust himself in those walls. He had taken lives there. 

But it held a quiet stillness now, in the moonlight, with the candles burning eternally for Andraste in a soft, pale glow. It occurred to him that he might run across that Sister Petrice, but if she was there, she was probably abed, and anyway he was there to seek the Maker’s blessing, to mourn and the grieve and to find a better way.

He was surprised to realize that he was not alone. He heard the quiet murmur of someone, a man, speaking the Chant of Light, soft and quiet. He paused and then realized it was Commander Cullen. 

The man looked up at the sound of footsteps, peering over his shoulder a moment as Carver climbed the steps to the chancel. For a moment their eyes just met, and there was something haunted in his gaze. Carver was not sure what it was. The man had looked at him like that before. Instead he just gave a shake of head, and then slowly joined him on his knees.

He didn’t know the words. But Cullen did. And they felt like the right ones, like fate had led him to that moment, some touch of the Maker’s hand if nothing else, perhaps Bethany.

“My Maker, know my heart:  
Take from me a life of sorrow.  
Lift me from a world of pain.  
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.

My Creator, judge me whole:  
Find me well within Your grace.  
Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.  
Tell me I have sung to Your approval.”

It had a quiet rhythm, a soft a solemn tone. It made him settled into it. He heard the words, and they felt important. But he heard the cadence and that mattered more. 

He noticed when Cullen finally shifted, though did not really respond. The man slipped out, leaving him to his ruminations, and Carver stayed. 

Longer than he meant to. He did not even realize the time, or the first light of dawn creeping across the tile floor, casting quiet, solemn shadows across the cracked stone, until a voice broke him from his trance, and he looked up to meet bright blue eyes.

“Serrah Hawke?”

His body was sore, and as he stirred, he realized just how much. He pushed himself up, shaking his head, and giving a stiff groan, his back and legs protesting. The Chantry Brother helped him up, and he gave a quiet shake of head, trying to clear his thoughts. 

“How did you know my name?” he finally asked, fxing on something. Sebastian gave a quiet little smile, not imposing, not anything, just knowing. There was a depth to his eyes.

“You look like Sidonie.” Ah. So that made this…

“Prince Vael. I…yes. Carver,” he introduced, giving an awkward little bow. He wondered how many times Sebastian himself had been found in the same position, lulled by the promise of the Chant of Light and the Maker. He looked up, expression quiet, at the statue of Andraste, massive and gold over the chamber, and then back to Sebastian.

“Sorry. Thank you.” He quietly drew away, and brushed himself down, clothes wrinkled from the night spent on his knees. 

“A solemn vigil,” Sebastian Vael said softly. “I hope I was not interrupting.” Carver looked up, then shook his head. How could he? He had not even really noticed the time that had passed himself. 

“No. I…I should be getting home.” Sebastian Vael gave a quiet nod, and then motioned down to the doors where he caught sight of Sidonie standing in the doorway. Carver narrowed his gaze, trying to work out how long she had been there, and then decided it didn’t matter. He sighed, closing his eyes, and then slowly took the steps, Sebastian Vael at his side. 

Sidonie did not approach, staying where she was at the far end away from the Chantry clerics. At her approach, she gave a soft sigh, and for a moment Carver expected a lecture before she simply gave him a quiet nod. 

“Varric said you were up here. He caught you headed up this way last night. I found him outside the Hanged Man on the way home. I figured you’d be either here or with Fenris.” Carver let out a soft sigh, and then a quiet nod. “You okay?” Another nod, and she left it at that. 

“Serrah Hawke.” Both of them looked up to Sebastian, but he was speaking to Sidonie in particular. “I…have the news you asked me for.” Sidonie gave a soft sigh, then a nod.

“We should speak with the Guard Captain and Sergeant Maverlies on the matter as well,” she said simply. Carver gave a slow look between them, confused, but Sidonie did not immediately explain. “Do you have the time, your Highness?”

“Yes. Of course. Give me a moment?” He drifted off then, presumably to relate his absence to someone. Sidonie glanced to Carver then.

“So, Varric says we leave today,” she said simply. He gave a nod. “Good. About time we get underway.” She gave a sigh. “Aveline asked for some help tracking a few people down, but once this is finished, we should be done with it.” She sighed. “I…need to speak to Athenril, about that job.” He narrowed his gaze, and then gave a low sigh. 

“Did it get done.”

“Yes.” He let it go at that. Fine. They were done with Athenril. Before long, it would not even matter. She took the next few moments to catch him up on what was going on, and the news was…troubling. He narrowed his gaze, considering, and then gave a quiet moue.

Sebastian Vael returned and Sidonie led the way out of the Chantry, eager to leave it behind. Sebastian considered them quietly as they cut across the square, heading in the direction of the Viscount’s Keep. It was still so early, but some of the guardsmen were out and about, and Sidonie gave them a careful berth before taking the steps up. 

Aveline was awake – of course she was. She probably never slept what with everything going on. She gave a small nod of greeting and admitted them into her office with a small bow of head for Sebastian Vael who gave a glum little nod. Aveline sent someone running for Sergeant Maverlies, who appeared not too long after, though she was not alone when she did. At her side, clad in Warden grey robes, was Anders. Carver narrowed his gaze to see him, confused. He had not seen him in Grey Warden armor, but it appeared that whatever was afoot, the ruse was, for the moment over. 

“You have news, Prince Vael?” Aveline asked softly. Carver, confused, sank into a seat, crossing his arms to listen. 

“It is…a bit more complicated than you believed,” Sebastian said simply. “My attempts to gain information have been only moderately successful. From what I can gather, they may be staying at the special invitation of Lady Reinhardt, who…is probably not touchable given her proximity to the Viscount. There seems to be some sort of conspiracy afoot.” Sidonie scowled, looking back to Carver.

“Is Lady Reinhardt one of the ones Mother used to know?” Carver gave a little shrug. Either way, he didn’t want his mother involved in any of this. It was dangerous, and she had been through enough. Sidonie sighed.

“What do we know about Lady Reinhardt?”

“She is the primary opponent to Lord Harriman,” Sebastian said simply, “which is how I am aware of her. The Harrimans were friends to my family.”

“As well as friends to Ferelden,” Sergeant Maverlies said curtly. “Lord Harriman has been instrumental in providing assistance in Fereldan’s recovery from the Blight.”

“He’s been sending grain ships,” Sidonie said, putting the two together. “These nobles are sinking those ships to bring Kirkwall’s aid back to Kirkwall sooner: by making this a bad investment for the city. And the Viscount agrees…or…those in power agree.” She left it at that. Carver sighed, then shook his head. Sidonie followed suit.

“I hope you can do something with this,” she said. “It’s all I can give you.” Aveline gave a quiet look, and her gaze slid to Carver, but he shook his head too.

“No,” he said before she could ask. “No, we’re going on our expedition.” Aveline gave a soft sigh. Anders shifted a little.

“I’m not good with nobles. If this goes that high, you need nobles to help, and that isn’t me, though I’ll do what I can,” he said simply. Sergeant Maverlies gave a low sigh.

“Well, we have a start then,” she said, looking to Aveline. “Prince Vael, if you might give us any further information, it would be welcome.” The Prince looked a little troubled, and then gave a quiet nod.

“Alright,” he said. “The Harrimans were friends. I will see them protected.” Sidonie gave a small nod, then took a step back.

“We’re leaving today, Aveline,” she said simply. “We won’t be back for awhile.” Aveline gave them both a quiet look, then a small little nod, an expression on her face like all she wanted to do was offer to help them. 

“Be safe,” she said, her look betraying a little of her anguish at the idea of them descending into the Deep Roads. Carver felt the same. “Come back safe.” Sidonie gave a quiet thank you, and then drew a breath, motioning to Carver, who eased out of the chair, and followed her. Behind them, Anders started speaking.

“So the next step is to get word to Eideann – ”

Carver did not stay to hear the rest. Sidonie gave a quiet look his direction, then gave a soft nod.

“Anders will come with us,” she said softly. “A Grey Warden knows the Deep Roads. He’ll be able to help.” He gave her a quiet look, started to speak, then let it go. No, Anders had looked after Sidonie the night before, he knew, just like he had said, and that meant that at least he could help. And she was right, a Grey Warden on the expedition would be of great help, especially a healer. 

“Fine, and Fenris said he’d go as well.” Sidonie nodded.

“We’ll have to tell him we’re leaving today, let him get things in order. Can you head up there?” He caught her wariness. She was still angry at him, or angry at what they had found themselves involved in, and that had also made her wary about Fenris too. So he gave a soft nod. “I’m going to see if I can find Athenril, let her know what’s what with her job, and clear all that. And then we’ll….just have to tell Mother.” 

“Be careful,” Carver said, expression solemn.

“Promise,” she replied softly. He studied her gaze a moment – their father’s gaze – and then nodded before turning away up towards the estated and the Chantry again.

Almost done. Only a little longer. Things were going to be just fine, starting that afternoon.

***

Sidonie was tired. She had gotten a little sleep after Varric had let her know that Carver had gone to the Chantry. She had not wanted to disturb him. At first she was worried he was going to get involved in the same business at her outburst, but she knew he was just trying to protect her, and Varric said he had put things into motion to get the expedition started. That had given her some hope that he was looking for the way out, the way forward for them both. So she had given him his space, and taken her own space too. She was glad for that, even if she had been worried, and when she had wandered up to the Chantry, thinking to at least check on Sebastian’s news if he was not there, then he could at least make some sense of it. 

She had not truly understood why he was there, but it was clear that he had been praying, or…something of the sort. She had never really known Carver to visit the Chantry before. But Bethany had, and she had wondered if maybe it was something to do with that. All the talk of defending sisters…a sore point. 

She gave a sigh, meandering the alleys of Hightown towards the Red Lantern District where Athenril set up her operation. She just had to convince her the boy was gone, just throw her off the scent and then they were done, the deal was kept, and all was finished up. 

But she was not expecting to find Athenril waiting, standing with her arms crossed, leaning into the wall. She sensed danger almost before it came, almost before Athenril pushed off the wall. Her look was cold and angry. 

“You better be here with my goods, Hawke,” she said. Sidonie drew a slow breath. This…was not what she wanted this morning.

“Athenril, it’s not that easy.”

“Yeah? You better have a damn good reason,” the elf smuggler snapped, pushing from the wall with her knife in her hand, spinning it slowly, the point against her own finger. “I’ve been generous to you, Hawke, given you a lot of information, and a lot of chances, and you don’t hold up. Not even once.” 

“I did that lyrium run,” Sidonie said quietly. “And the other one was not my fault. Your information was bad. This one…you’re looking at Coterie. They’re the ones who took your property, and your help. You know they have a lock on trade, Athenril.” The smuggler shook her head.

“See it’s a good story, Hawke, if I didn’t have you followed, to make sure you kept your end of the bargain. And my other boy came running back here last night with a very different story. You, it appears, have apparently been making charitable contributions to pock-marked brats.” She gripped her dagger, spinning it out, and took a step forward. Sidonie took one back. 

No. This was getting bad now. And it was going to go very wrong, very fast. 

She went to step back again, but something connected with the back of her knees, and she toppled forward, knocked from her feet by Athenril’s man, who circled her with his own blade. 

“Pretty face. Be a shame if we roughed it up,” he spat. Sidonie drew a shaking breath, looking between him, then back. 

“Athenril…”

“Soft-hearted Fereldan bastard. I should have known better than to trust any of you. Should have turned you over to the Templars the moment you and your Uncle fucked me over.” Her knife flashed as she caught Sidonie’s shirt, hauling her close. The blade knicked her throat. Sidonie was just shy of panic. “You spurned my offer,” Athenril hissed, close enough Sidonie could smell her breath, “and lost me some serious coin. I intent to take what you owe, with interest.” This was it then. The end.

But something else happened instead. A sharp slap, the sound of a body falling, and then strong hands hauled Athenril from Sidonie’s collar, and slammed her back against the wall. 

“I warned you.” She knew that voice. Sidonie looked up, panting and shaking, and reached for her staff at her back, eyes wide. Meeran stood over her, pinning Athenril to the stone wall behind her in the alleyway, lifted off her feet, his arm at her throat. “I told you to keep your filthy hands off my Red Iron, didn’t I? I don’t have time for people who cross me in this town, smuggler shit.” He slammed her back and Athenril kicked, struggling too, before Meeran’s own knife sank into Athenril’s torso. Athenril’s eyes went wide, the press of his arm at her throat keeping her silent and unable to call for help. The other smugglers were under siege too, more Red Iron doing the dirty work, all of them. Had Meeran been on a job? Was she lucky, or followed? Sidonie did not even know. 

“Meeran!” Too late. Athenril’s eyes went glassy, and Meeran drew back his knife, wiping it on her armor before sheathing it again. He let her body fall and then turned his gaze to Sidonie, who was staring up at him with her eyes wide. 

“Hawke.” He hauled her up onto her feet, and she took a step back, brushing herself down before giving him a wary look.

“What are you doing here?” 

“A fine thank you.” He pointed with his chin towards the door across the way. “Nice brothel up there. Worth the time when you have the coin.” Sidonie glanced back to the brothel, then turned again, looking to him again, her expression solemn.

“Sidonie!” That voice made her relax more. She glanced back, letting out a breath at the sight of Carver and Fenris. 

“Carver. I’m fine.” He hurried to her, taking stock, expression drinking in the sight of Athenril, her now dead smuggler gang, and then Meeran. Meeran quirked a cold little sneer.

“Well, looks like you’re both here. Good.” 

“What did you do?” Carver demanded.

“Took out the trash,” Meeran replied, examining his nails. “Saw your pretty sister here in a bit of trouble, and did a favor.” A favor. Sidonie drew back a step, drawing equal with Carver. He was bigger than her, and if Meeran could strangle the life from Athenril, Sidonie was as much a target, not much bigger herself, all said and done.

“Then you have our thanks,” Carver said warily. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Not so fast.” They froze, and Sidonie gave a wary look. Meeran’s gaze was cold.

“A favor for a favor,” he said, and she glanced to Carver. His look was dubious. Meeran stepped a little closer. “A life for a life, and then we call it even, yeah?”

“We don’t kill for coin anymore,” Carver said quietly. Meeran shook his head with a sardonic smirk.

“Of course not. Unless it’s at the behest of Templars, or the Guard, hm?” He shook his head. “You’re not too good for this kind of work. But you are good. The blokes I hired after you couldn’t find their arse with both hands.”

“Meeran…” Carver’s voice was a cold warning.

“No, you hear me out, doglord.” Meeran’s look was cold. “I need this done, and you’re going to do it. You owe me a favor, a life for a life. Did you forget the rules doglord. You do the work. You don’t decide if it’s right. You be very careful about what answer you give me now, or certain information about your sister will be coming to light.” They both froze, Sidonie giving a hard swallow. Carver himself was bristling with anger instead. Sidonie gritted her teeth.

“I haven’t heard a job in this yet,” she finally said. He smirked, then crossed his arms, his look smug, angry.

“Same as always, don’t know who, but old and rich. Rumors says this target is a savvy one. His daughters give him marriage ties to half the city. But it’s nothing personal on our end, just like saving you. It’s paid for second-hand by some other old Kirkwall family. You know how the nobles here like to shank each other for sport. You’re going to be the knives.” Sidonie felt her blood run cold, already expecting the name before it came to Meeran’s lips. “I’m sending you to take out Lord Harriman.” 

For a moment, no one moved. Carver’s face fell. He glanced to Sidonie, but she didn’t look back. She felt the weight of everything, of Kirkwall, and of this ever present blackmail of her magic she had never chosen hovering over her. She felt anger at the way the whole damn city worked, how it bound her back into everything she hated, caught her up in all the darkness. She felt it ripple through her as she looked at the Red Iron. There were so many of them, too many…and they were backed once again into a corner. She thought of her Mother who longed for a world that was gone. She thought of Gamlen stealing their money and selling them into this life. She thought of how hard they had worked, how much effort it had taken, how many close calls. She thought of the Templars and Carver’s work with them just to keep her safe. How many people had they sold out together just to keep their heads above the water? How many more had to lose everything just so they could grapple with existence. 

She was tired. She was tired of running, and tired of hiding, and she as out of choices. 

Lord Harriman was Sebastian’s friend, and a supporter of Fereldan Blight survivors. He was sending grain and aid south to their home – their home! His enemies, those that wanted him dead were harboring people who paid for raiders to sink ships that were delivering aid. They sheltered traitors who wanted the Hero of the Fifth Blight dead, Anders’s friend, those who had backed organizations like corrupt guardsmen under Jeven, who had cut deals with the Coterie and the Carta. She had been forced to smuggle lyrium from under the nose of Templars to keep her secret, to kill and to fight and to steal.

And now, with only hours before she could finally get a way out, a way to be better than all of that, a way to truly defend her family, this. 

She was a knife, he said. A weapon. A tool for others to use.

_I am not a weapon,_ she thought, angry. _Magic must serve what is best in me. Not that which is most base. This time…this time it will not be my fault. Existence is the only choice we have, and I choose a different existence than this._

She fixed her gaze on Meeran, and reached for her halberd staff, and then she gave a quiet breath before saying in a final tone:

“No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ON ANDERS:  
> A lot of this draws from dialogue specifically had with Eideann back in Book 5, and hopefully helps to put some of Anders's own decisions into context. Remember that many of the characters involved in all this HAVE met or else were close, and that perspective shapes a lot of these different events in interesting ways.
> 
> NOTES ON SEBASTIAN VAEL:  
> The Harrimans are at this point considered friends to Sebastian's family (from his quest in ACT 2), and Lord Harriman himself says that he suspects Lady Reinhardt behind the attempt on his life. This IS the actual Loose Ends quest for Meeran, and so it makes sense in the grand context of everything that this all interconnect. After all, in Kirkwall, everyone is out for themselves.
> 
> NOTES ON THE EXPEDITION:  
> Much of this is direct dialogue from Bartrand and Varric and Hawke. I co-opted it for Carver because it felt like a good option here. The idea that they need an appraiser as well as a merchant to provide supplies for the expedition gave Sandal and Bodahn a good reason to be involved, especially since in Dances, they did not travel with Eideann's group after their initial meeting but instead fled northward towards the Free Marches.
> 
> NOTES ON THE TREASON PLOT:  
> Right now this does feel a bit disconnected and unfinished. Don't worry. It won't stay that way. If it feels rushed, hold and wait and see what happens. Sidonie and Carver have very different motivations than Eideann, who would absolutely been involved in the politicking going on here, and since much of the POV has been theirs recently, it matters to giving it a dismissed sort of air. But there will be pay-offs here. So hold tight. ;)


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wrong answer forces Sidonie's hand; Carver deals with the fallout of their decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Comments always welcome :)  
> Check me out on [TUMBLR](http://higheverrains.tumblr.com) ~HR

For a moment no one moved. Sidonie held her ground, but at her back she felt Carver and Fenris both bristle. Meeran’s eyes were cold, like raw steel, as he met her eyes.

“What did you say, guttersnipe?” Sidonie gritted her teeth, hand curling about her staff.

“I said,” she repeated. “No.” 

“No.” Meeran’s voice was flat. Dangerous. Sidonie recognized it.

She could count. She knew the numbers. She wasn’t brilliant by any means, but she knew how many people she could take out, and how many she could take out with Fenris and Carver’s help. And it wouldn’t be enough. She stared, expression dark, and gave a small nod.

“I won’t. He’s being hunted for aiding my people. I will not kill him.” Meeran sneered, his lip curling, before rolling his neck a little and giving it a little shake.

“I think you forgot the rules, doglord. You don’t decide if it’s right. I’ll take care of this myself. But you…” The knife in his hands glinted in the light. “I don’t let anyone who crossed me get this big in this town,” he said, and Sidonie watched his men start to close in. “On them, lads.” 

“Carver!” He was already moving. Stepping out as Fenris did, the three of them turning, back to back, surrounded. There were too many. The Red Iron was not Athenril’s cut of half-starved smugglers who weren’t good enough to sign into the Carta or the Coterie. They were the top mercenary company in Kirkwall, known across the Free Marches, and this was their territory for a reason. Every single one of them was dangerous. And worse.

They knew how Carver and Sidonie fought.

The first attack hit so hard it reverberated up her staff blade. She skidded back along the flagstones, lighter than the assailant, and gave a sharp hiss as he shoved her back. She swung her halberd around and it became incredibly clear just what was going to happen here. 

Until Carver intervened, a sharp slam of a blade that cut the man down. Sidonie stared, then glanced to Carver before whirling about. 

She whirled about, slamming the spearpoint of her halberd staff into the gut of the next one and twisting it in her hands to deflect his sword as he swung for her in turn. All of it was a massive mess, and by now they were edging along towards the open space away from the alley, and people had started to notice. 

In the distance, she could see Fenris, deliberately trying not to call attention, but she could also feel him, and the markings on his skin were glowing, and she didn’t know just how she was going to focus when his preence was actually causing parts of her magical attention to hone in. 

_No,_ she thought desperately. _Don’t use magic. There’s people. They’ll see._ She couldn’t. Doing so would mean the end of everything. She couldn’t. 

But then Meeran joined the fray, and he went straight for Carver. 

Carver had not seen. Meeran, knives sharp and deadly, drove inward, and his blades caught Carver’s side. Sidonie gave a shout, horrified, and Carver grunted, jolting from the blow. It took him off guard, injured and wounded as he was, and that made an opening. 

Fenris closed the distance, his sword ringing out and taking down one of those who fell upon that opening with greedy eyes, wanting to bring him down. The elf’s lyrium markings flared, bright and shining, and Sidonie drove for Meeran. 

It was a bloodbath, the perfect storm, lyrium sending magic crackling through her veins, uncontrolled, and the emotional impact of having to jump in to save Carver – to save all of them. 

Fire erupted, and force as well, with such an impact that several men went catapulting away across the buildings, slamming into the structures across the street. Meeran caught fire, as fade-fed balls of it crashed down, tearing through the melee and settling ambient things alight without ferocity. It was stronger than she had meant, stronger than she knew how to stop at first, and panic seized her. She was fighting now against the forces of lyrium that she was inadvertently drawing from, Fenris’s lyrium. 

Meeran still aflame and screaming drove at her, mask a horrified maw of pain and anguish and rage. She hacked with her halberd, slamming it through his neck, and his head rolled. Still she could not stop it. She felt it pressing at the edges of the Veil, threatening to overwhelm her, to tear the fragile fabric that kept them safe, weak as it was in Kirkwall. She sought Fenris, who was staring at her, but he had no way to stop it, and he looked horrified too.

And then she felt the fierce might of a Templar’s smite. 

It did not come from a Templar, though it snuffed out her magic in a moment and left her shaking where she stood, weak and ready to fall. It was Fenris who caught her then, still staring, shocked himself. Sidonie looked to the source, Carver, who was clutching his side, blood coating his arm, and watching her with horrified eyes.

And then there was a shout, someone coming, headed their way. Someone was calling for Templars, and the clank of armor the next street over made it clear they were not safe. She hurried to him, but he shoved her back.

“No. Sidonie run.”

“Carver!”

“Run!” There was a fierceness to his tone, and she took one look at him before Fenris hauled on her arm, dragging her down the alleyway, and out into the street. 

They stumbled almost headfirst into Anders on his way down the steps of the Viscount’s Keep. Behind him at some distance, a contingent of guards had noticed the sounds, but Anders dragged Fenris and Sidonie both back out of the way into another alleyway.

“What in Andraste’s name is going on?!” he demanded.

“Mercenaries and smugglers,” Fenris said coldly.

“That was a Templar,” Anders said.

“It was Carver,” Sidonie said, looking back. “Please, I have to go back! Let me go back!” Fenris stopped her, and Anders caught her arm.

“To do what?” Anders hissed, pressing her flat to the wall so she could not fight to escape them and run headlong into it again. “You’re the apostate, not he.” 

“Please! Anders! If they find out - !”

“He did it to save you!” Fenris spat, his voice firm, flat, and cold. “He told you to run. You run.”

“Where?” Sidonie demanded. “They’ll find me! They’ll trace this back! They’ll go after Mother and Uncle Gamlen, and Carver…he’s hurt, please…Anders, please.” The healer looked over to Fenris, as if he was a better judge.

“A stab wound. Not pretty, but he was on his feet, and the guards are headed that way.” Fenris shook his head.

“Please!” Sidonie begged. “I can’t get my little brother killed for this!” 

“Listen!” It was a sharp hiss, Anders pressing her back again as she tried to struggle from their grasp. “Hawke, listen to me! It is not safe for you here. You can’t go home, or they’ll all be in danger too. We have to leave. We have to go. Now.” He looked to Fenris.

“The expedition,” Fenris said firmly. “They’ll be watching the gates after that display, but if we can go with the dwarves…” 

“Fine,” Anders said. “We go with the dwarves.” He was still in his Warden uniform, staff at his back. Fenris was dressed as he always was. Sidonie had her staff and everything. There was no time and no need to go back and gather more. “Fenris, I’ll get Varric,” he said, looking to the elf. “You get her to the Merchant’s Guild.” After all, the elf was as much a fugitive as the rest. It was not much, certainly not in Kirkwall, but a Warden Uniform afforded Anders the protection the rest of them currently lacked. They were that short on options.

Sidonie’s eyes flooded with tears. Carver was meant to go with them. Now he was bleeding in an alley with Templars and guardsmen descending upon them, surrounded by dead bodies. He’d get tried as a murderer. And she couldn’t even help, less they kill her as an apostate.

Worse. THE apostate, the one they were looking for, with their investigations into the incident at the Chantry. 

Anders was right. So was Fenris. But she was worried sick. She wanted to cry her eyes out, to take off running. She couldn’t think straight. And even though she had ended Meeran, even though Athenril was finished too, she was in more danger now than ever. 

Now they knew. Now she could never be safe.

Anders stepped back, as soon as he was certain she was not planning on bolting, and took in the look of her before giving a nod to Fenris and pulling away, checking the coast was clear before taking off across the square. There were serious implications to being caught at all, but then he was gone and that left Sidonie still trying to control a rising wave of panic. 

Her first ability was actually just the chance to focus on Fenris, her fingers gripping tight to his arms where he stood before her. He met and held her eyes, his own both tumultuous and strangely calm, and she knew that she had frightened him too.

“I didn’t mean – ” She began as if it would be enough. She had not meant to draw on the lyrium, that power he unwillingly bore. She had not meant to do so at all, especially not without asking. The moment had taken over her.

But he simply swallowed, hard, and she could tell he was shaken too, but at the whole thing, not at her.

“I know,” he told her quietly. It was enough. She bowed her head, tears threatening, but he gave her a soft nudge, tipping her chin up to meet his eyes again. And then he gave a soft shake of head.

“Later. We will deal with it later, Hawke.” His hand found hers, catching tight, his gauntlet poking at her skin but a sharp reminder they were not safe. He too checked the alleyway, before slipping out beyond. 

They kept their heads down, darting along the backstreets rather than anything main, and Fenris seemed to know them. Sidonie did not know how. He was, of course, now occupying an estate in Hightown, and he had spent much of his life avoiding notice on the run as of late, but still it was strange and unsettling that he should know it so well. 

He led the way, dragging her along from small passage to small passage. There were more guards now, hunting them, hunting an apostate and an elf, and nowhere was safe. Once, a man on the street tried to stop them. Fenris drew on his lyrium markings and thrust his hand through the man’s chest, tearing out his heart.

By the time they reached the Merchant’s Guild, the whole of Hightown was in uproar. There were guards patrolling across the streets, and Templars. Yes, now there were Templars. 

Fenris paused in a narrow gap between two of the stone houses to consider the open square they would need to cross to reach the Merchant’s Guild. Across the way there were wagons, their arranged expedition, though how they would manage to leave now, Sidonie herself had no idea. Surely they were going to be found. They could not simply walk out.

She was about to despair again when there came a soft hiss from down the streets, a sharp little noise that made her look about, startled. Varric. She saw him poking his head out of a nearby house, and then beckon to them. She tugged on Fenris’s hand, and then melted back into the alleyway. 

The house that Varric led them into was done up in dwarven style. It looked like something out of another world, not Kirkwall but perhaps Orzammar itself. Fenris stared at it, then at Varric, who did not pause.

“C’mon, if anyone catches us in here, we’ll be dead before you can say Templar.” He led them along through the back chamber and then down a flight of steps. 

They never actually ascended again. Instead they carried on down, deep into the earth, until they must be on par with Lowtown, or maybe Darktown, and then some. Sidonie was confused about that, until she remembered that the Merchant’s Guild was dwarven families, and that this must be one of those estates. 

“How did you find us?” she asked. 

“Luck,” he replied, keeping his voice soft. “You had to come round here anyway. Blondie said you were coming. There’s only a few sides you can approach on that don’t involve walking through the middle of Hightown, so I took a chance. This was honestly the only house I was able to get access to, and if we’re caught…”

Not his then. 

“Whose house is it?”

“House Vasca owns this one. They…want me dead. Luckily they’re not entirely in residence at the moment, but I’d rather not face down more of their assassins,” he explained softly. “We’re not on good terms.” He refused to elaborate that one. Instead he simply led them down until the tunnel flattened out into great structures that looked not unlike the drawings that Sidonie had seen of the Deep Roads themselves. And then things opened up wider into a great rotunda, an assembly of sorts, with stone chairs around a circular stone table.

It was there they ran into Anders, who was waiting with arms crossed. At the sight of them he eased, though only a little. 

“Thank the Maker,” he said with a soft sigh of relief. “I was starting to fear the worst.” 

“Not quite,” Fenris said softly. Sidonie just bowed her head.

“Carver?” she asked him. Anders just shook his head.

“Aveline took him, or…her people did. Not the Templars, but…that’s all I know.” 

“Can…can we get word, Varric? To…to Isabela, or…” Isabela wouldn’t be able to help, but at least she could keep an eye out. At least…

Varric reached to pat her arm. 

“I’ll send word. But for now, there’s the matter of this expedition.”

“Will Bartrand still go?” Varric gave a soft scoff.

“Of course he will. You think my brother’s going to miss out on the opportunity to strike rich? Never. We can’t get you out the main gate though. But there are ways that the Merchant’s Guild can go in and out of the city.” There were lots of secret ways in and out of Kirkwall: old sewer tunnels, Darktown mining remnants, by sea or road, or if you were clever the caves. It did not seem unreasonable to Sidonie that the Merchant’s Guild, which rightly still maintained its ties to Orzammar, would have the chance to smuggle what they needed in and out of the city. Nor did it seem strange to consider that they might do so without alerting the guards. After all, no one else in Kirkwall felt a need to keep the guards abreast of their business. And the Merchant’s Guild was as large as Thedas itself.

“Tunnels?” Fenris asked. Varrric gave a low hum.

“Not ones I like, but the dwarves used to trade with the Tevinter Imperium, and Kirkwall was once the city of Emerius. The dwarven embassy at Minrathous is build to connect the Deep Roads to the surface, and this one…it wasn’t any different. The Carta use the tunnels sometimes, but we’ve closed off a lot of the Deep Roads exits. Mostly it’s for business now. Not every dwarf likes caves though.”

“So…Deep Roads.” 

“Almost. Similar. They don’t connect anymore. When the Blights hit, we sealed off the tunnels. Now it just lets out across the surface. We’ll take those and meet up with Bartrand beyond the city.” Sidonie sighed, then gave a small nod.

“Fine.”

“Sidonie?” She had not heard Varric ever say her name like that before. She met his gaze, and he met hers back, warm brown on oxblood. “It’ll be alright.” She just shook her head.

“No, Varric. It’s my fault.”

***

Everything hurt. The thought of it all. He was sitting in a chair in Aveline’s office, staring at the patterns on the tile, his side bandaged, but very obviously a prisoner of sorts. Aveline herself had yet to make an appearance, but he knew that she was angry. He could hear it, out in the corridor, as she tore through her own guardsmen, barking orders.

The sound gave him a headache. 

And then the door slammed open, and he cursed himself for flinching before it slammed shut. The sound of footsteps crossing to him, and then he heard another chair being dragged over, and she sank into a seat across from him, beginning the stare down.

“Carver. Look at me.” It was not a request, and it was not soft. It rang with anger and disappointment. Carver could tell that she was taking it personally. She had been investigating mages, and she had not turned in Sidonie when she might have upon their arrival, keeping the secret because she was certain that Sidonie at least was safe. 

This? Even Carver was not sure what to make of this. Sidonie had used the same force and fire that had scorched the Chantry, which was certainly an investigation Aveline herself had been part of, and Carver knew that Aveline was not stupid. She would put the two together. Perhaps she already had.

He did not immediately look up. He couldn’t. But he did close his eyes a moment, gathering strength, before he finally, finally tipped his head upward. 

She was staring him down with piercing green eyes, disappointment clear. They stood there, the both of them, ex-Fereldan Army, staring at one another across the space. They had stared down Darkspawn, both of them, at Ostagar. They had seen everything go to shit before. And they had both just tried to make a life in Kirkwall in spite of everything that had gone wrong. 

What was there to say? Her men had found him surrounded by bodies, killed by fire and force magic, with witnesses saying that a woman and an elf were responsible for that. He had been wounded, and he could not run, but he had used that same strange force he had used against Idunna the Exotic Wonder of the East, and the Blood Mages that had taken Keran. 

Except this had been no blood magic. He had used it on Sidonie. He had felt it. He knew. He had sensed her magic, the signature that had just been only her, but chaotic and reaching and spiking in ways that were foreign and strange. And he knew, he just knew, if he did not stop it, it would all be so much worse.

He had done the only thing he could. And the look of terror in her eyes as he had screamed at her to run, to go –   
No. The look in his eyes now was just weariness as he met Aveline’s. 

“They say you killed a whole mercenary band, as well as a lot of smugglers,” Aveline said simply. “Is it true?”

“Meeran and Athenril,” Carver said. Aveline had been there when first they had signed up, when first everything had happened. “You know they were holding shit over our hands. They came after us first.” The guardsman gave a heavy sigh, hanging her head and pushing herself up.

“Fire and force, Carver,” she finally said, her voice sharp and angry. “Look me in the eye and tell me, _swear_ to me that it was not Sidonie who murdered those Templars in the Chantry. You _swear_ it!” Carver just gritted his teeth a moment, and then he looked to her, look fierce and cold.

He had never been a good liar. That was why he usually did not. But in this he had no choice, and when he chose to lie, it was such an unexpected thing that he might get by with it. 

This was protection, and in truth he did not blame Sidonie for the Chantry, for protecting herself when they had attacked. He blamed Anders for that. And he blamed the Chantry itself for trying to trap them. And he had reason to dislike the Chantry more after the events with Sister Petrice. After everything had gone crazy with the Qunari. He didn’t have to incriminate his sister. He was going to protect her. He had no other choice.

“She wasn’t responsible for that.” 

His voice sounded cold and foreign and hard. But it also sounded true. Because it was the truth. Sidonie was not responsible for that. It was _not_ Sidonie’s fault.

He had never been close to Sidonie in the way he was close to Bethany. Sidonie was the elder sister, the one he could blame when things went wrong. Sidonie was the problem, the infuriating sign of all that he should have lived up to. Bethany was his opposite, but Sidonie had always been his rival, because they were similar, because they were the same.

He had failed in protecting Bethany. He was not going to fail protecting Sidonie. He was tired of needed to, but that truth would hold eternal. She was his sister. He was not going to turn on her. 

Aveline gave a shake of head.

“And even now…” she said. “Even now you’re a tit. How am I meant to allow this. This was murder in the streets, Carver. I’m the Guard Captain! I can’t just let this stand. There are people who want answers for this, people who insist that I investigate, and that I bring before the Magistrate anyone who is responsible in this…this…shitstorm! That, right now, is you!” 

She was frustrated, he could tell, because she didn’t know what to do. Aveline stood for things, for things being right. She stood for the rule of law, and Kirkwall did not make that job easy, and he knew it. But in this, in this, he was angry too.

How dare she try and paint this with a simple brush, like she had all the answers? How dare she blame him for this when they had attacked him.

“You knew this city was eating us alive,” he spat. “You knew we just needed that one chance, that one way to get out. You knew that, and still you sat there, asking for our help tracking criminals and missing people, all while refusing the only thing we asked you for: a steady job, that way out! You could have helped, but you didn’t. Instead you let Meeran and Athenril have their piece. And they took and they took and they took. And finally they wanted us gone as well, to take everything else we had, to end it, and us, because we decided we were finally sick of playing their game. You did nothing. And now you want to charge me and haul Sidonie in to the Templars because we did the only thing we could do? We survived! I’m sorry that’s inconvenient for you!” He shook his head.

Existence is the only choice we have.

Aveline gave him a cold look, and for a moment Carver was sure she was going to hit him. But instead she crossed her arms, turning her back.

“Carver,” she finally said, voice cold. “I’m not charging you. But if you ever cross me again, I will. I’m the Guard Captain. I can’t treat people like they’re above the law. You abide, or you pay, like everyone else.” 

She motioned to the door. 

“Get out. I don’t ever want to see you in my chair again. Meeran and Athenril are dead, and they still haven’t found Sidonie. So…go. Seize your chance and do something with it. And this time make it something for you. But that place for you is not with the guard.”

He stared a moment, then pushed himself up, tearing his gaze away. And then he reached for the door handle, but her voice stopped him.

“Carver.” He paused, closing his eyes, and did not look back, waiting. She gave a sigh. “Go look after your mother.” 

He tipped his head slightly, and then hauled open the door. Across the way he caught sight of Donnic and Brennan who were watching with quiet look. Donnic gave a quiet sigh, and Brennan pressed her lips into a thin line. No welcome there either. Carver headed up the steps.

He did not find it nearly so easy to actually leave however. He should have known it would not be nearly so easy. There, at the door to the Keep, blocking the only way out, he caught sight of a small group of Templars, a few he actually recognized. Ser Emeric, Ser Thrask, and there at their head Knight-Captain Cullen. 

He froze. He hesitated, but he couldn’t retreat back into the guard chamber. And by the time he had realized that, Ser Thrask had already seen him, and made a point to murmur something to Cullen, who then looked up. Their eyes met, that strange hollow sense that Cullen was looking at something he knew, and then the Knight-Captain, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, beckoned to him.

At that point he had no choice but to go.

He descended the steps, wary, Ser Emeric watching him with quiet eyes. Ser Thrask gave him a little nod. Cullen’s look was disquieting. He waited until Carver had come before him before quiet turning and motioning for him to walk with him. Thrask and Emeric took up the rear, walking at a quiet distance.

“If I am to believe the stories,” Cullen said with a quiet voice, “you blocked a mage from magic today, even with your injury.” He gave a pointed look to the bandages and Carver’s bloodied shirt. “Are they true?” His eyes slid back to Carver then, and for a moment the man hesitated. And then he gave a silent nod. He had, after all. They were true. 

“The woman and the elf are gone, but that is understandable. A few said they had seen her doing work with the mercenary company she destroyed before, as well as the smuggling group. The accounts were…confusing and conflicted.” He glanced away, towards the sky before starting down the Keep steps towards the main square of Hightown.

“From what we gather,” he continued, and Carver was confused. It sounded like a report, like he was being briefed on the information, “she has formidable power, but no one knows where she has gone. I am told…that you told her to run.” Carver closed his eyes. 

He could own it. He could just say who it was she was. He should perhaps. He was running out of options. Cullen might already know. 

“Whatever your motives, you must know, that mages cannot be our friends. Even those that mean well are so often lost because of their own magic, and the casualties among non-mages when this happens are significant.” He did not want an answer then. Cullen was issuing a warning. “Hawke, I don’t know the truth of what happened today. You have done a significant amount of work for the Order. You have proven yourself time and again as someone who understands the balance between upholding duty and the overextension of power. Mistakes can be costly. I advise you not to make another. But I know as well you were wounded. And that your work to end that mage saved lives, likely including the mage themselves. I do not hold any pretention that injured as you were you could have chased after that mage, and I do not know if you told them to run or not, though I would like to think the better of you that you would not. After all, you helped bring in the Starkhaven mages, and you brought those that were kidnapping our recruits to justice.” 

Carver could feel Thrask and Emeric’s gazes boring into the back of his skull. Was this an interrogation? Were they taking him to the Knight-Commander? What was this?

“I have come to learn,” Cullen said as they finally reached the square, “that the best recruits are those with experience, who understand and have learned from what it is truly like. Today, even without the name, you proved yourself again a Templar, and those skills you have unchecked are dangerous. As I understand it, you had originally intended to go on an exploratory mission to the Deep Roads, but you should know that the expedition itself left an hour ago, through the main gate, and were permitted. You are currently seeking employment then, and you have a family to support that resides at the moment in Lowtown in need of financial support, which is a familiar enough story for most of my recruits.” He looked to Carver again then, and Carver’s blue eyes met Cullen’s brown.

“I have already extended my offer. It still stands, now more than ever. But you have gifts that are not trained, and there are obligations that you already uphold that you could instead use for greater good. The task of a Templars is twofold: protect the world from mages, and protect mages from themselves. You do both. And I need people in my ranks that can do both, and that understand both, and that have already done both. Not raw recruits, but people of experience. People of duty and dedication. I hope, given the circumstances you now find yourself in, you might consider the opportunity again.” 

So they were…recruiting? That was what this was? Thrask and Emeric and Cullen all here to bring him into the fold.

He did not know where Sidonie had gone, but he was certain that Fenris had gotten her clear, though if they were not with the expedition, they had simply vanished. Perhaps that was best. Sidonie could not go home, and with Meeran and Athenril both dead, there were very few sources of legitimate work left. He had given all their money to Bartrand and Varric to buy on to an expedition, and it stung to find they had taken it and run. That left him with nothing. And it left Mother and Uncle Gamlen with nothing. Athenril and Meeran might no longer have debts but Uncle Gamlen had others, and Mother deserved better.

No, he was well and truly out of options now. He thought a moment, and then looked back to Emeric and Thrask. It was Thrask who met his eyes.

“There is dignity in this calling,” the red-haired man said. “There is a chance to protect those that deserve protecting, in a way that honors the sacrifices of Andraste and the words of the Maker.” 

_My strength must serve what is best in me, not that which is most base._

He thought then of Ser Karras, of the mages he had sentenced to the Circle to keep Sidonie safe, of Keran and the blood mages that had taken him, and the others he had encountered over his time in Kirkwall. None of them were like his father, or like Sidonie. None of them were like Bethany. 

Bethany had believed in those tenets, understood the Maker and the way the Chant of Light spoke. And Bethany had been good. He wanted to be more like Bethany. 

Carver was a soldier. He had always been a soldier. He was a good one, and he knew how to follow and how to decide, and he could work well with others. The guards was no longer a choice for him, but Kirkwall had another army, and it should be built of good men, not people like Ser Karras.

Sidonie was out of reach, and so were his other options. At long last he had come down to this final decision. He thought then to his father, the man who had lived in the very Gallows where he would serve, and knew he could make a difference there. 

Ser Maurevar Carver, Conscience of the Order, his namesake, his inspiration, his destiny then. 

Finally he drew a slow breath, then let it out, and then looked to Cullen. His own voice sounded like death knolls as he made his reply.

“Alright, Knight-Captain. You win. What do we do next?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ABOUT THE MERCHANT'S GUILD  
> The Merchant's Guild in Kirkwall is absolutely one of the biggest ones in Thedas. It has a lot of sway with the Kalnas, the surface dwarves that try to emulate the caste system, so it makes sense for it to have underground tunnels. Since the original trade agreements between the dwarves and Tevinter were established a LONG time ago, before the establishment of Kirkwall itself, it makes sense that they would collaborate to join the Deep Roads to the city of Emerius when Tevinter built it, but it ALSO makes sense that those tunnels would be collapsed to protect the city from darkspawn as much as possible. So while this is all crazy headcanon stuff, it isn't entirely implausible. Since the Merchant's Guild ALSO does a lot of work with the Carta and smugglers, it makes sense that some of their tunnels also lead outside to smuggler caverns which DO in lore dot the Wounded Coast (and the Waking Sea in general). The house they go through is said to be owned by House Vasca. This is a real, influential surfacer Kalna house, and they actually DO want Varric dead, mostly because Bianca married into this house, and he keeps trying to have affairs with her. They up and moved to Orlais, but it's reasonable to suspect they still own property in Kirkwall, especially since Varric's own family owns random beet farms in Rivain and whatever else.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathaniel, Sigrun, and the Dace Brothers contend with Amgarrak Thaig; Nathaniel has to make some difficult decisions; familiar faces are a welcome sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence, gore
> 
> Comments Welcome ([COMMENT POLICY HERE](https://higheverrains.tumblr.com/contactpolicy))  
> I welcome comments pertaining to story content. I am not currently seeking criticism. Thank you. ~HR

With a decision made, the going had been easier – or it had felt easier at least. There were no hesitant moments once Sigrun and Nathaniel had made up their minds, and no real wariness either. They knew the enemy now, or had an idea what it was, and for all the mess, Nate was more confident in the decisions they had made now than he had been since first they had descended into the Deep Roads in the first place. 

Jerrik Dace was less than pleased, but his brother, Brogan, was managing to keep him placated, through sheer presence if nothing else. They had gone carefully from thereon out, taking the paths warily. The creature may have been in the original fade level, but there was no way to know if their interactions with the switches were bringing it through with them, or if there were ways that it could interact with the switches as well. There was also no assurance there was only one. 

He hoped there was only one, though. More was almost too much to countenance. It did not escape him, however, that whatever the case might be, this creature was over a thousand years old, and that if there was anything human or demonic involved in its creation – the presence of blood magic and the strange lyrium streams and the information that it was made of corpses suggested it was almost certainly demonic – then it was likely cunning as well. 

So confident, but careful. 

They took watch when they found a safe place to stay, though it was nothing more than a small chamber where there were some scattered pieces of fractured equipment. Nathaniel sat oiling down the string of his bow with the small kit he had received from Eideann for Saturnalia, and considering their options while Sigrun went through their final supplies. Jerrik Dace had fallen asleep alongside Brogan leaning against their bronto Snug. Only the golem stayed, lurking, glittering with lyrium runes. Nathaniel narrowed his eyes.

“How much food?” he asked Sigrun, who gave a quiet sigh.

“Enough for a couple days? We’ll want to head for the nearest exit if we can, or else…I suppose I could teach you about fried Deepstalker.” She grinned at that, but he could tell she also was not joking. If they could not escape the strange barrier and end this creature soon…well…it wouldn’t matter how much food they had left. They were running shy of water too. 

“Oh good. Deepstalker it is,” he said instead, sliding the cloth down over the string again slowly and then shaking his head. “Sigrun, do you have an idea how lyrium explosives work?” 

She sank into a seat crosslegged beside him as he lowered his bow, and then tossed him a biscuit wrapped in cheesecloth. He caught it, wiping his hands on his trousers before opening it and having some himself. She was three bites in before she finally gave her reply.

“We used to use them in the Legion – those and lyrium charges – but I never really made them. I can…guess my way around them?” She said. “Basically they’re…sela petrae, which is…sod, basically its crystallized urine.” Nathaniel made a face towards his biscuit. “Then there’s a bit of drakestone. And then there’s lyrium sand. When you light it on fire, it all explodes.” She leaned back on one hand, munching through her biscuit. “Lyrium charges are a bit different. They’re super concentrated, often with a bit of refined liquid, like the mages and templars drink, but…different.” She gave him a look. “That stuff will explode if you tip it wrong or you shake it, so…it’s more explosive. It’s treated though, usually.” Nathaniel considered their options a moment.

“Is regular lyrium explosive?” he asked. Sigrun shook her head.

“Not on its own. Lyrium vapors have been known to ignite in mining tunnels, cause major damage.” 

“And how do we get lyrium vapor?” She considered a moment, then gave him a flat look.

“Heat up liquid lyrium.” Well, on that count there was something that they could do. 

“Those lyrium wells are liquid right.” Sigrun gave a nod.

“This whole place is liquid. That’s rare. Most lyrium comes in crystalline forms, or as an ore or sand. It makes me think they refined this on purpose for that mage to use it.” 

“What does that mean, exactly?” Nathaniel wondered. How did one go about refining lyrium. There were so many questions that he didn’t know the answers to, and he didn’t have the ability to try and undertake either.

“Concentrated, and specifically aligned for magic,” Sigrun said. “I’m no miner, so I don’t rightly know, Lieutenant. All I know is that it has to be treated pretty carefully, or else it’s toxic to mages. Regular lyrium on its own, pure and sharp, is dangerous, particularly to mages. But even dwarves feel the impact after awhile. I imagine that refining it down to a liquid makes it less dangerous.” But also more potent, in a way. Nathaniel considered a moment, then gave a slow sigh.

“Amgarrak has a forge,” he said after a moment. Those lyrium switches we have been toying with keep setting off those wells, making them spin. It’s…what did the journal say? Diverting the lyrium streams. Diverting where? Do they stay diverted after the spinning stops.” 

“I don’t think so,” Sigrun said simply. “It’s hard to say. The spinning is what shifts the weird colors around.”

“It’s the Fade, or…something like it,” Nathaniel said. “Mages use lyrium to help them do more magic with the Fade, don’t they? So it is the Fade. It’s just…not the Fade we know.” For a moment they were quiet, and then Sigrun shifted.

“Amgarrak has a forge, doesn’t it? If they were working on golems, it has to have a central forge.” She met his eyes, her own bright gaze boring into him. “If they were working on ways to upgrade golems using lyrium, then those lyrium streams being diverted further inward likely head right to that forge. I bet the closer we get, the more those lyrium streams are going to light right up there.”

“A forge fueled by lyrium?”

“Not quite, but the Anvil of the Void was linked to lyrium, and the notes we have said that their Tevinter mage through lyrium was key. So…it makes some sense.” For a moment he mulled over it, and then he sighed.

“So let’s say the streams do divert, and we can find a way to keep the wells spinning permanently. Let’s say we deal with this monster and can heat the lyrium until we get vapors. Then what?” Sigrun smirked, reaching back into her bag where she had dug out the biscuits she was finishing. 

“This,” she said, holding it up, cautious about it. “Dworkin had a good handful made at the Vigil. The last of his stock since the battle for the keep. We set the thing, and run as fast as we can.” She paused, then glanced down at the charges. “Only problem is that barrier at the door.”

“I think it’s caused by the lyrium,” Nate told her simply. “The way those things were set up to seal people in, I think if we can reroute the switches, that actually makes it how it was when they were doing their experiments, which likely did not involve the doors being barred shut.” 

“True.” She considered a moment, then looked up. “So, there’s just their monster to content with.” There was a soft snort and Nate looked up to see Brogan shifting in his sleep. The Daces were apparently absolutely exhausted. 

“Yes,” he said softly. “But we will.”

“You really think this is blood magic, don’t you?” He gave her a quiet look.

“I don’t know enough about it,” he admitted. “I just…know what it looks like. Those blood symbols out by that Veil Tear with the Revenant and the undead? I wonder if that wasn’t where this Tevinter mage started this. They used the bodies of Casteless to make this creature, and it’s been destroying corpses since. I’m worried that…they’re part of the magic that keeps it alive too.” He sighed, then shook his head. “I only know one way to lay the dead to rest and never let them return, and that’s by burning the bodies. If we can make this whole place go up in flames, bring it down about our ears…that will be good enough for me.”

“You really thing we can kill it?” Sigrun asked. He gave her a flat look.

“We killed the Mother,” he finally said. “We got rid of that Architect too.” Sigrun gave him a quiet look.

“Speaking of Tevinter mages…” she mumbled. Nate sighed but did not discount it.

“I had wondered a bit about that myself. The timing is…odd. If this dates back to the days during the First Blight…well the timing is awkward. I know what you and Eideann found in that book. I don’t like it. I don’t even know if I believe it. But if this place was functional then…well…it makes me nervous.” Sigrun watched him a moment, then slid the cheesecloth back into her bag and leaned forward, expression wary.

“You think these different colored lyrium things could really lead to the Fade-Fade?” she asked him. He gave a quiet look her direction and finished his own biscuit.

“I don’t know,” he finally answered, “but I don’t want to take the chance.” He glanced to the Daces, then back to Sigrun, who just gave him a quiet look, a small nod. 

Behind her, the golem was as silent and blank as ever. Nathaniel considered it, wondered who the person that it had been was. The soul of that being was over a thousand years old too, as old as the creature that stalked through those halls, as old as the research in the thaig itself.

What was your story? Nate wondered to himself. The golem simply carried on with its empty stare.

No, Sigrun was right. People deserved a better existence than that sort of slavery, volunteer or otherwise. And she was right as well when she said they had to know where the lines stood, that sacrificing everything meant losing the reasons they had to fight at all. 

They had to hold on to their humanity. 

They waited until the Daces had managed a bit more sleep before moving again. Nathaniel led the way, but carefully, letting Sigrun take up the rear, since she had the golem and a better sense of navigating thaigs. They crossed down another set of steps and then into another chamber with another lyrium well. That was three. Three wells of lyrium. So much. 

Enough lyrium to keep the Templars set for years. 

And none of it would be seeing the surface. He could feel Jerrik Dace’s protests before he could even speak. 

There were two other chambers from that room, and a descent down into the forge, but this was blocked by a barrier of deep red. The other chamber nearby turned out to be a slew of switches, the control room. Nathaniel considered it with quiet eyes, but couldn’t make heads or tails of it yet. 

“Any ideas?” he asked. Brogan gave a low whine.

“Darion came this way. Find Darion. Find the switches.” That seemed the only real option. Darion was a Shaper, had been the one in charge of exploring the thaig, and if he had survived as Brogan did – something that seemed entirely unlikely – his information was the best bet. If nothing else, his journal had been helpful. If they could find more pages, more of the research, they could find out the way to make all the switches operational, to direct all the lyrium towards the forge. And then they would be in business.

But when they found Darion, across the lyrium well chamber behind a door sealed shut, it was clear it was already too late. Darion had not died by the monster. His body was intact. One look at him had Jerrik Dace down on his knees beside the body, his expression despair. 

“Oh Darion,” he sighed. Brogan bristled beside him. 

Sigrun helped herself through the man’s belongings. He had died of exposure, not of attack. And tucked into his bag they found the last of his notes. She flipped through them with a sigh. 

There were the codes for the switches. And there was something else as well, the last of the missing pieces, more of the ancient notes tucked between pages of Darion’s handwritten scrawl:

“A breakthrough!” Sigrun read carefully, and it was clear from her face she was less than impressed. “Nereda bound a Fade spirit to a construct of flesh and bone, and it moved. We’ll have something concrete to show the nobles and the Shaperate, once we put it back together. Someone must have overlooked a missing seam. When the construct came alive, the head tore itself from the body, and…scrambled off. Nereda says it’s nothing to worry about. She’s out looking for it now. In face, that scratching at my door is probably her.” She looked like she might be sick as she turned over the old parchment and instead found more of Darion’s writings, which she read aloud as well.

“They called it the Harvester.They knew it was a terrible mistake and they trapped it within these tunnels. Our foolish greed led us here, and now we are trapped along with it. Our only hope is to destroy everything: the creature, the research, the magic that sustains this place. I must get to the forge. The doors are sealed. It will take a specific combination of switches. I must think now.” 

Jerrik shook his head.

“This is madness. He wants us to destroy everything? After all we’ve done to reclaim this place?”

“We’ve already made this decision,” Sigrun said darkly. Brogan nodded quietly.

“Trust him. Darion understands. Darion knows,” he said softly. Jerrik gave a pained look. Sigrun sighed, glancing back to the journal and carrying on.

“It created a body, harvested flesh from the dead. It hurled my friends’ limbs at me. I tripped in their entrails, ran, still alive, only one alive. I can still hear it out there. It knows I’m here. I cannot get back to the forge. There’s a shaft of light. I can see my escape, but I cannot reach it. The ground is too damp, the rocks too slick. I could go out there and make it quick, or stay here. Either way, death is certain.” It was clear the man’s choice. 

Jerrik shook his head.

“We should return him to the stone,” he said. Sigrun gave her head a soft shake of head.

“How? There’s no stones we can break loose. There’s nothing we can do with that…Harvester out there.” 

“We can’t leave him. He’s a Shaper!” Jerrik protested.

“We’re going to bring down the thaig,” Sigrun said. “Every single one of them lost here will be returned to the stone when the thaig comes down.” Jerrik looked distressed but they had no other choice, and the longer they waited the worse it might get. 

“Darion was headed to the forge too. He had a similar idea,” Nathaniel said simply. “We’ll get there, and see what we can do.” He motioned for Sigrun to show him the journal, the scribbles of the options for the switches there dictating the right combinations. He drew a slow breath, then looked to the others. “We go carefully,” he said. “Stay close. We have more of a chance together if we come across that thing.”

The Harvester. The name alone was terrifying. He grimaced and bit the inside of his cheek, then gave Sigrun a small nod. 

On the one hand the idea that a millennia old abomination forged of blood magic and dwarven sacrifice still roamed those halls and could obliterate entire expeditions was terrifying. It defied all the rules of what was good and right in the world. But on the other hand, there were many horrors, and framed in the light of a blood magic abomination, it became something that was less massive and mind-boggling to conceive of. In some ways, knowing the hows of its creation made it seem smaller, more…manageable. Confining it into an understood box gave him the strength to face it. 

The first step was diverting the rest of those streams.

They made their way back across the chamber. In the distance, the chittering and pattering of something deep in the darkness skittered. But they knew what it was now, and knew to avoid it, at least for now. The time would come when they would face that. But for the moment, they had the rest of their plan to work out. 

Sigrun manned the door with Brogan and the golem and Snug while Nate and Jerrik navigated the control room. There were more golems within, sentinels that Nate did not wish to wake. Jerrik looked them over with chagrin, and Nate could see the longing on his face, but there was no way to take them all with them. They were part of Amgarrak itself. And they were deep in slumber now. If they woke, they would be belligerent as the others. 

Instead, Nate focused on the switches, checking back over the scratched out combinations recorded in Darion’s journal several times before finally working through the combination. One by one the switches shifted, whirring, and in the dank echoes of the thaig, they could hear things starting to move.

Beyond the door, they could see the lyrium well in the center of the chamber light up and begin to spin and Nate gave a satisfied little nod. 

And then came the familiar wash of light, this time a deep and bloody red. Sigrun gave a shout from the door, and then there was the sharp ring of swords clashing, more spiritual guardians it seemed. 

These were different than the others, the figures of people, not demons, not the undead. They were ghostly, flickering red and fiery, and there was something raw to them. This level of the Fade seemed deeper, darker, heavier, as and with all the lyrium wells spinning there was no doubt it was a deeper level than before, perhaps only a step or two from the Fade itself. The idea frightened Nathaniel a little, and he thought again of the conversation with Eideann back in Amaranthine, the warning about the ancient Magisters Sidereal, about the Architect and who he might actually be, and what they had themselves tried to do before: visit the Fade in the flesh at the time of the First Blight. 

Amgarrak was that old. The techniques were not so different perhaps. The thought brought no comfort.

They broke through the spirits with the help of the golem, whose strange lightning magic once again proved of use. It crackled out, arcing through the chamber and catching on the ethereal forms as Brogan and Snug and Jerrik hammered the point home. Nathaniel saved his arrows. They would need them for this Harvester, he knew.

There was a final switch as they reached the door where the red barrier lay. Nathaniel peered down the steps beyond, into the deep darkness, and knew. 

_It’s down there_ , he thought, _keeping warm and collecting its strength_. The scent of decay was thick at that door, and that was where their experiments had gone wrong all those years ago. But more than that, this creature was part fade spirit. Magical barriers would not hold it back, and that was all that had truly stood between it and the upper levels, if that. It could crawl up along the walls, squeeze through spaces they could not even see. It was every bit as unnerving as Justice in the decaying body of Warden Kristoff, except worse, more volatile, older and twisted and capable of massive destruction. He thought again of Anders with a bit of worry and then tried to shove the comparison from his thoughts. No. Anders would not be like this. Could not. It made him sick ot think on it. He had things in the here and now to be concerned with.

The final switch was not going to just bring down the red barrier. It would bring down all the barriers. That was the point, after all, and how they would make it out of the thaig. The barrier at the main gate would vanish too. That left very little option for them, then. They had to go forward, and they had to end this thing, or else that monster would be free in the Deep Roads. And that was an even worse thing to contemplate.

Nathaniel glanced to the others first, checking them over, and then he slowly sank to a crouch, resting his bow across his knees. 

“Here is the plan,” he said simply, trying to get it all clear before they headed down there. “The lyrium should all be diverted towards the forge now. From what we can tell, that’s where the research took place. It makes sense for the lyrium to wind up there once the whole thaig is active again, since its where they did most of the work. We’re going to set off a chain reaction once we get the forge up to heat, with the help of our golem friend here, and set off a few lyrium bombs, and the place should go up. We’ll only get one chance.” Brogan took a step back.

“No, not there. Not in there,” he said hurriedly, eyeing the steps downward. Jerrik scowled and then caught Brogan’s arm.

“I thought you trusted Darion. He said to go to the forge. That’s where everything is. Including my research.” Sigrun scowled.

“Sod your research,” she spat angrily. Brogan shrank back.

“No, Jerrik, can’t you hear it? Chitter, skitter, in there, waiting. It’ll wear your face, Jerrik. Take it off in rips and strips.”

“Nothing is wearing my face,” Sigrun scowled. “I’m going to end that thing, and then end this whole damn place too.” She glanced to Nate then with a nod, the control rod for the golem in her hand. The golem was still as stoic as ever, but at least this one was on their side, and they might need a steel golem to bring down a flesh one.

That was the real question though, was it not? Where did humanity end and machine begin? Where were the lines drawn. 

Where did humanity end and monster begin? Abominations, Wardens, golems, darkspawn, all of it. All a question of how far into the darkness you could walk before you were more monster than person. 

Something to stand for, like Sigrun had said. Something that made you a person. 

For Nate it was duty, hope, life. It was love, Anders, and friendship. It was Ferelden, of his home and his people, and the world he wanted to build. The darkspawn would not take that. Amgarrak would have none of its Victory. 

He pushed himself up and reached for the final switch, and as they descended into the depths of the forge, the heat hit them, strong, fierce, the dizzying dry impact of lava streams and pools of superheated magma, and the heft of raw lyrium in liquid form starting to simmer below. Not enough, but soon. The heat from the rest was sweltering. It set the air ashimmer with strange heatwaves from the forge. 

If it had not been for the years of training, he might have missed it, far across the hall, in a semi-circular chamber across from the main forge. But there was a slight movement, and it did not follow the motion of the heatwaves, and he knew in an instant what it was: the Harvester. He drew back his arrow as it skittered into the depths across the chamber. 

They had to deal with this first. 

The creature they had witnessed was merely the escaped head. He crept up the steps to where it scuttled in the distance, and at his side Sigrun’s mouth twisted in disgust. There, across the chamber, a giant fleshy mound lay, a body of mangled decayed flesh, molded together by magic and force, and all of it as old as the Blights. 

And then the Harvester – or its head at least – scuttled over on its claws, climbing the mound like a mountain and disappearing on the other side. For a moment, none of them moved. And then the mound twitched, a horrible motion as it came to life, and then it moved in earnest. 

It was a monstrosity, the sort of thing that he could never in his life have imagined. As it rose up to tower on two ill-formed legs, he watched as the grotesque mess settled upright, and then it turned. Beady malformed eyes, and a face that was a mask of contorted flesh borrowed from other bodies, fixed on them.

“Shit.” 

They barely moved in time. The creature gave a deep, wailing cry, hulking and misshapen. It dug deep into the rotting flesh to hurl it across the chamber, and the stench of it was almost enough to overpower. Nate stumbled, and Sigrun turned, and then their golem was in the way. It lumbered forward to meet it, and the two clashed as the Harvester drew towards them. Nate turned, trying to find a weakness, somewhere to shoot it full of arrows. It had to be the head. That was where the life was. The body had not been moving until that head returned. 

The golem sparked, electrical energy arcing again as before, along its limbs and about the chamber, and it set the lyrium below to roiling. Nate staggered back and took aim.

He remembered then the Mother, lunging and fighting them at every turn, twisting writhing tentacles that had tried to sweep them from their feet. He remembered the grubs, youngling darkspawn, freshly hatched and still feeding, slugs or some such beasts that crawled across the ground. He remembered too the heat of the fight in Kal’Hirol agains the inferno golem, where he had nearly died, would have lost everything, if not for Anders and Eideann Cousland. 

And this was all three, all combined. He wanted to be sick. Instead, he fought it back down, ignored the stench of rotting flesh baking in the heat, sizzling under the warping iron as the lyrium – pooling beneath the floor where they had diverted the streams – was starting to roil and bubble and hiss. 

He took aim, his grandfather’s bow true and solid even in the heat, and drew back to aim. 

The arrow took the creature in the eye, knocking the head from the body and sending it scuttling into the ground. 

It was Brogan who led the charge, Sigrun right there beside him. Jerrik gave a cry of alarm as they drove in. The creature’s little claws flashed, razor sharp and deadly. Sigrun took a swipe across the arm and gave a loud cry. Brogan hacked with his sword, blocking another blow with his shield, desperate now, in the moment, to see the thing dead. 

Meanwhile its body toppled, no longer controlled by the creature, and it stumbled backwards into the belly of the forge, where it ignited, burning and flaming fire catching on the rotting flesh and sending and inferno into the air which caught, for a moment, their golem. 

That electricity was doing the work of heating up the rest, crackling and sharp with the stench of burned flesh. The whole thing made Nate dizzy, but he drew another arrow. Beside him, Snug and Jerrik, the dwarf with his daggers in hand, were hurrying for the exit, already reading the explosion that was coming. 

“Sigrun!” Nate cried, the only warning he could get out, and then the entire thing started to pop and sizzle. Sigrun hacked back. 

“If I die here, let it be for something!” she screamed, and drove in, tumbling down with Brogan and the Harvester.

For a moment he feared she was dead. His arrow let loose, sinking again into flesh, and then everything went quiet. 

“Sigrun!” he called again. There was nothing. No chittering. No pitter patter. Only the pop of the flesh baking on the forge, the creak of metal as the golem began to falter in the staggering heat, metal warping under the intense heat.

And then across the way, something moved. Through the heat, he saw her, dragging Brogan, who was hurrying away from the remnants of the beast. In Sigrun’s hands, the last of their lyrium bombs. 

Jerrik was already heading up the steps, Snug stampeding up them the way only a bronto could. Brogan drew back from Sigrun as Nate ushered her forward, and then hurried after his brother higher up.

“Nate, go.” He shook his head.

“Give it to me.”

“I’m already dead.” Her look was severe. “Let me do this. There’s no way we can make it out.”

“Yes we can. We can all make it out. Just go.” She gave him a quiet look.

“Lieutenant.”

“That’s an order, Warden.” She scowled, and then finally shook her head.

“No, sir. You go first. I’m coming right behind you.” He fixed her with a quiet look, reading her intentions. And then he drew a deep breath, though it seared his lungs with heat to do it.

“You’d better,” he told her, and then took the steps, two at a time, up higher into the thaig, hurrying after the other dwarves and their bronto, with a final look back to where the golem stood, melded to the floor. As he watched, it pitched forward, toppling, and the lightning died. Another sacrifice. Gone. Dead. 

And then he was running, as fast and as hard as he could, racing back through the tunnels the ways that they had come. The weird colored levels were no obstacle anymore. They were all gone with the final flip of the last switch. Instead it was a clear shot to the door, and as they raced on, he chanced a glance back, but there was no sign of Sigrun.

There was no sign of anything, until they were at the door, and then they were forcing the doors open out into the main caverns of the thaig, racing towards the Deep Roads they had first come from, as if their very lives depended on it. They likely did. Who knew, in truth, how far the explosion would go? Who knew how massive the entire thing would be. They may yet die to this.

They darted down the corridor, and that was when they ran into the dark wind, blighted and swirling, the barrier. Nate cursed. 

There was a shout – Sigrun! – and then everything erupted, a brilliant flash of blue light, the sound of an entire cavern collapsing, boulders tumbling down. He shoved Jerrik and Brogan down behind Snug for cover, and watched as the light engulfed Sigrun, and then themselves. 

The last thing he felt was the searing pain and heat.

***

It shook the entire chamber, a massive rumble that made everyone stagger for cover as parts of the ceiling skittered down in a rain of pebbles and loose rock. For a moment, Keenan was sure that the whole damn place was coming down. But there was no second sound, no chain reaction that dragged the rest of the Deep Roads down to pieces, and so – after a moment’s pause – he finally pushed up.

“Mythal’enaste, what was that?” he heard Velanna snap. One of the dwarves, Raske, gave a scowl.

“Explosion,” he said.

“Not a quake?” Keenan asked softly. Raske gave a shake of head.

“No fault lines for miles,” Kardol said, running a hand over his scalp. “That was lyrium explosions.” That meant someone set it off. “We have to get to the source. That was massive. If that was an accident, we’ll be hauling people from the rubble.”

“No expeditions this way were there?” Oghren asked, scowling. 

“Helmi was making a run for Kal’Hirol, out of Ortan,” Kardol said. “There might be some others I’m unaware of. Either way... we can’t not investigate, Lieutenant.” Keenan gave a quiet nod. They were there to reclaim the Deep Roads, not ignore the problems. 

“Find the source,” he agreed. “And we’ll work out from there.”

It took them three whole hours to trace it, further southward, further into the depths. They were in tunnels that the Legion knew, though perhaps not entirely well, until suddenly they were not, and even Casda, who had managed to make her maps, could not say for certain where they really were. 

“Sod if I know,” she said, expression a little disquiet. She didn’t like not knowing where she stood. 

They finally found signs of an explosion when they came across some fallen rocks. At first it seemed a simply cave-in, but Kardol did not let it go at that. He shifted, climbing over some rock-slides, until at last he could get through, and when he reached the other side, he gave a call back.

“Looks like an old thaig!” he called. “Or the way to one.” Whatever thaig had been there had been the source of the explosion. That was all they needed to know. Velanna did the rest. 

It was an hour of shifting rock before they finally made it through, and on the other side, Velanna gave him a heavy scowl and an concerned look.

“The Veil here is a mess,” she said with a quiet look, expression wary. “Be careful.” Wonderful. 

It was not the first Thaig they had come across with a Veil that was tattered and torn. Many had been the sights of major battles, and spilled blood left the Veil worn thin on its own. But for Velanna to make note of this one was particularly concerning. That meant it was even worse, and he could not begin to work through how.

“Be careful. I don’t want to run into any of the Commander’s particular friends,” he murmured to Velanna and Oghren. 

With the path clear, they traversed the way, until they found an open chamber, and there, in the center of it, half-buried in stone, they found a bronto, which appeared dead upon first inspection. But then, at their approach, it shifted, and a few loose stones rolled from its back, and in the space it left behind, there emerged a hand, then another.

And then the face of Nathaniel Howe. For a moment Keenan just stared, and then he was hurrying forward, hurling aside the stones with the rest. Lucan, at his side, raced forward, sniffing about and digging at the dirt, and then darting off. Keenan let him go. If Nathaniel was here, that meant others. That meant possibly Sigrun too. Lucan knew her scent as well. He’d find her.

And find her he did, as well as two other dwarves, which Kardol from the Legion identified as House Dace. Sigrun had a broken leg, and was bloodied and half-buried in stone. Petra used what healing magic she could, but the woman was going to need a lot of special treatment, and the sooner the better. As for the rest, well, Kardol was already doing the rounds.

“What in the Stone are you doing here,” the Legionnaire commanded. “We thought you were Cross-Cut Drifters looking for Veins and blowing yourselves up for the trouble!” The other dwarves looked dazed enough, but Nate seemed a bit better off. Keenan gave him a quiet look, and he just shook his head.

“You still trying to find that legend of yours?” Kardol demanded. The first of the dwarves opened his mouth, but the second, the quieter one, was the one to speak.

“Yes. But we didn’t. We tried to get through a tunnel, but the charges went wrong.” Kardol looked about, expression grim.

“Pretty powerful charges. We felt you leagues out.” The dwarves had nothing further then to say. Nathaniel, bruised and battered, with an injured shoulder and a gash over one eye, gave them a quiet little look, then glanced to Velanna. 

“Can you do something for me?” he asked, meaning it just for the Wardens alone. “Come with me?” he motioned further in the way they had obviously come. “Things were…weird out there.” 

Whatever had spooked Nathaniel was enough to make Keenan nervous, so it was he, Velanna, and Nate who went, picking their way through fallen rubble until they finally reached a gap that appeared to break through into the remnants of a thaig. 

“What on earth is this?” Keenan asked, peering through the gap. Nate sighed.

“Amgarrak. A walking nightmare. And it needs to never be found again.” He looked to Velanna with quiet eyes. “I need you to make sure that happens.” She looked to him, expression disquiet. 

“You want it lost?” she clarified.

“What was there?” Keenan asked, peering once again through it. Nate just drew a quiet breath.

“What happens when you give up your humanity,” he replied. “Golems. We’re not going to ever make golems. This thaig gets buried. Velanna. Please?” She gave a quiet little nod, and then reached deep for Keeper magics. The barrier she grew in place was thick roots of the deepest trees, barriers formed of the earth itself, sealing magics woven through the branches, to keep it locked up tight. 

“There was blight magic here,” she said after she was done, panting and exhausted from the effort of blocking off the way. In the end, it did not even look like the passage had ever existed at all, just the sight of a cave-in, leading to nowhere at all. The job was better done than Keenan might have guessed. 

“It was overcome in the explosion,” Nathaniel explained wearily. “Let me get away from this place, and I’ll fill you in on the details.” 

“Sounds like there’s a lot to say.” Nathaniel just gave a little nod.

“Yeah,” he said softly.

“Did Eideann send you here?”

“She’ll be waiting for my report,” Nathaniel said softly. “Can you get us to the surface?” Keenan gave a simple nod. That and more if need be. Nathaniel looked genuinely relieved. “Thank the Maker,” he sighed, leaning bit on Keenan as he helped him back down the tunnel towards the others. “I won’t lie, it’s been an absolute mess. But after all this I understand better what it is we’re doing down here.” Keenan gave a quiet nod. It was something he understood too. 

“Fighting for a reason. Fighting for a home.” 

“Yes,” Nate said softly, meeting his eyes, his own look knowing and clear. “And I’m ready to go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ON AMGARRAK:  
> Uff Amgarrak. I changed a few things to make it less puzzle-heavy. In truth, this chapter took a LOT of research (which likely has me on government watch-list trying to find scientific ways that lyrium explosives might function XD). The short version, for those interested:
> 
> Lyrium explosives (such as those Anders uses in DA2) are generally made using lyrium sand, sela petrae, and drakestone (in our world we're looking at components for gunpowder with this). Dynamite in our world (or the equivalent of lyrium charges) is made using nitroglycerin (highly volatile) coming into contact with basically the same sort of ingredients and igniting. We also have some basis for plasma explosions (this is a bit more sci-fi, but heck lyrium DOES have a liquid state as well as a solid state, and superheated lyrium could potentially have a gaseous state as well, so why NOT plasma tbh? *artistic liberty here*). Plasma is basically the gaseous state of an object where its atoms are ionized (meaning magnetically stripped of certain particles like electrons). Amgarrak is built on a massive slew of lyrium streams, and the earth itself has a natural magnetic field caused by shifting molten liquid metals (usually iron but others as well) which Thedas likely ALSO has since the Dragon Age world IS in fact a spherical planet. We know that dwarves have made use of lyrium in any number of ways, including golem making, enchantment, and lyrium clocks. We also know that Amgarrak was a MASSIVE fade experiment. So I carried the thought forward re:lyrium streams and let the fact they already have enormous amounts of latent energy add to the fact they are in directed streams create the magnetic field necessary to turn lyrium itself into plasma. Plasma would need an ignition, hence the charges Sigrun was carrying. After that, the gas itself would explode, and since Amgarrak is built atop this lyrium, it would effectively destroy the thaig. So...that was the best explanation I had for exploding Amgarrak thaig nonsense, since in the DLC itself the thaig does get buried under stone and rubble, mostly with no real explanation except "the bad guy died, time to destroy the place". I just...gave it as close to a plausible way of ending as possible.
> 
> I avoided creepy escaping Harvester heads. They frankly made no sense and were NEVER mentioned again, so I didn't want to bury myself into that weird shit because it has had no bearing on ANY other game. One was enough. One was more than enough. >.< This arc has been a really strange and interesting one to write, because of its later implications if nothing else. So...hopefully if the payoff isn't there yet, it will be in time. Thanks for sticking with it. I know it's not a DLC many have played.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie tries to get a handle on her magic around Fenris and worries for Carver and her Mother; Varric's brother Bartrand has some information on a strange new thaig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Mentions of Abuse (Fenris)
> 
> Comments welcome, but I am not seeking constructive criticism at this time. ~HR  
> Check out [My Tumblr](https://higheverrains.tumblr.com) for more.
> 
> (Sorry for the delay on this chapter. Real life events and family emergencies are responsible for the week-long delay. Thank you for your patience.)

The first few days were a blur of numbness Sidonie could hardly remember. She felt empty, drained of all thought and feeling, like none of what was happening was real.

They joined up with Bartrand’s caravans a small way down the coast, and in a few days had reached the entrance to the Deep Roads. The camp was buzzing with excitement, anticipation, anxiety. From their little group – Fenris, Anders, Sidonie, and Varric – the mood was significantly more tense. 

Anders, still in his Warden uniform, had spent the better part of the past two days with a grim-faced expression avoiding questions from expedition members. He didn’t know what they would find down in the Deep Roads. They were different. He just warned them to be wary of Darkspawn. The worry in his voice was not veiled. As for Varric, he bustled about, helping Bartrand, but even he was calmer, quieter, and his eyes kept skipping to Sidonie.

It was Fenris who sat with her though, who brought her food and made sure she ate it, who spent his nights leaning against the wagon wheel at her side, arms crossed, bristling with the roughness that would keep others away. 

The first night, she had cried, actually burst into tears, and it was he who, after a few hesitant moments, had drawn her into his arms and held her. She had fallen asleep on him, bundled up under a spare cloak that Varric had purloined from the expedition stores. 

The rest had been just an exhausted blur between them, though she knew one thing that needed addressing, and she knew it needed to be soon. That lyrium. If they were going to be headed into the Deep Roads, they couldn’t build on one another again as they had in the square. It had been Carver who stopped her, but he was not there. He might be in prison, or dead, she didn’t know. And she was not safe without his help, not if Fenris was going to be using his abilities. In truth, she needed him to use them, or else how would he fight? He was trained to it. And that meant they needed to understand just what was going on between them.

So at last, on the eve of their descent, camped around the entrance to the Deep Roads they would be taking, she brought it up. 

“He used a smite.” Her voice was quiet, still unbelieving about it all. “He used a smite on me. I didn’t even know he could do that. If he hadn’t – ” It would have been the end. But that smite had been shocking enough. She did not know Carver could do that. His work with the Templars had gone further then?

She didn’t know if the guards had hauled him in, or if they had gotten him help. It wasn’t Aveline with them, but surely he would have wound up with her eventually. Surely he was alright.

Did he knew she had made it from the city? Did he know they had joined the expedition? Was Mother alright? Was Uncle Gamlen? Lady? She didn’t know, had no news, and no way of getting word back. She didn’t even know if she could ever go back herself.

She would find a way to get word. She had to. Not now, but…eventually. Somehow. She had to.

_Carver, please be alright._

“He saved me. Us.”

“Yes.” Fenris’s deep sea-green gaze slid to her.. He knew. He understood. It was there in his eyes. Across the way, Anders was watching them, slowly adjusting the binding on his staff. 

“I can dispel magic if I must, but not in a fight like when it might happen, and it might put you both out of commission, which could cost you your lives,” he said softly. 

“No one asked you,” Fenris said darkly. Sidonie gave him a quiet look and he softened. He glanced to Anders then, and drew a breath. “We will manage it.” Anders’s brown gaze was solemn but he gave a small little nod, shifting across the fire. 

“You want me to stop it if it gets out of control again?” he asked after a moment. Sidonie thought, then gave a nod.

She and Fenris had done this before, in fights as well as when mending the Veil a little at the estate where he was staying. It was not entirely new, though increasingly a problem. It had been this that had caused the problem for Carver, this the reason. She needed to control it. She had to. 

“Yes,” she told Anders softly. “But only if we can’t.” He nodded, and after a moment Fenris gave a nod of agreement too, and then he glanced back to Sidonie, sliding his legs beneath him cross-legged to consider her with worried eyes.

It occurred to her that this was the purpose of the markings after all, a source of lyrium for a Magister, and that in doing this she was using him the same way Danarius might have. She did not like that comparison. So she met his eyes, oxblood so tired and open and vulnerable.

“Sorry,” she said softly. In response, he reached to take her hand. 

It was a small movement, but from him a massive one. 

“Slowly,” he said softly. “I can tap into the energies myself, but for you to do so, it must be controlled,” he said softly.

“I’ve never used lyrium before,” she admitted. And at that Anders sighed, then shifted, setting aside aside his staff and sinking down into a seat beside them, so the three of them were circled up. He glanced to Fenris, then adjusted his seat.

“You’ve used it with him,” he said simply. “The key to it is to control the extra power. Your magic is…force, fire…so when you’re dealing with addition lyrium, you’ll be reining back those forces. You can bank force with temperance, balance fire with keeping a cool head. The difference will be in your internal control, not the external.” He glanced to Fenris, who gave a soft nod.

Sidonie gave a worried look, tired and drawn. She had a problem with a temper already. She let the fire dance across her fingers to channel all of that outward, away. Taking in more energy, harnessing more was always going to be dangerous. She could barely control what she had. 

“Is there…a way to control how much I draw?” she asked after a moment. Anders gave a small nod, and Fenris looked to him. Fenris had no control over that himself. He was either using the lyrium or not. And however much she wanted to tap into was a matter of how much she herself would allow. But that was not something she could contend with without practice. In calm moments, such as when she had helped him fix the Veil in his estate, it was easier. But when she was distraught, when she was confused, then it became significantly more difficult.

And she was still confused and upset and uncertain about everything.

She felt Fenris give her hand a soft squeeze, and then Anders glanced between them.

“Reach for some magic,” he instructed. “The fire you do.” She was hesitant, after the incident in the square, but there was a quiet confidence in Anders’s eyes. 

He was Circle raised. He would know better than anyone the trouble that someone could get into with such things. Perhaps he had even taught others before. In truth, his demeanor made Sidonie think of her father. That brought a bit of comfort.

She reached for her magic, and the little bits of fire flickered across her fingers. That she could control. That was all about control. For a moment Anders just let that occur. Fenris watched it, wary of the magic, but after a moment at Anders’ nod the markings along his arms started to glow and then the heady rush of lyrium washed over them. 

It was Anders who held it back, though his abilities were nothing akin to the smite that had drained her of magic when Carver had reacted. It was a dimming, a sudden quiet pressure, like a load had become heavier, like something was pressing back. 

She swallowed, and her eyes met Fenris’s again.

“Slowly,” he said again. Sidonie gritted her teeth and reached out.

It came as a flood, sudden and sharp, and all too much, and she immediately felt a wave of panic until Ander’s spell strengthened and the entire thing washed backwards, like a tide ebbing, and she and Fenris both glanced over as the magic fluttered out. Anders’s magic managed to settle through them, and Fenris’s markings immediately stopped glowing. Sidonie dropped the flames. 

For a moment there was just a defeated sort of silence. But then Anders cleared his throat, shifting.

“Right. Try again.” 

“Again?” 

“You’ll only get it if you keep trying,” Anders said, and meant it for both of them. Fenris sighed. 

“Something to continue working on.” At least he was willing to try. Sidonie drew a slow breath, then reached again for magic, once more meeting Fenris’s gaze. His look was severe, still very wary. She knew he had every reason to hate magic. 

And yet, this might yet save their lives. So they kept at it. It took several tries before there was finally something to it, some semblance of control. That was when Anders called it.

“We can keep trying down in the Deep Roads. But at least you know there’s a way to do it now,” he said, and pushed himself up. Sidonie swallowed, thinking, then glanced to Anders.

“What’s it like, down there?” she said softly. He sighed, closing his eyes a moment.

“Like dying,” he finally said. “Claustrophobic and ancient.” There was no lie in his voice. 

Sidonie gave a low sigh, gritting her teeth and Anders gave a small nod before drawing back.

“You should get some sleep,” he said simply. “It’s easy to lose track of time down there.” And then he turned his back. Sidonie glanced to Fenris, who had finally released her hand with the end of their work, and then he gave a soft sigh, scooting back and putting a bit of distance between them as he rose. She could sense the tension.

“I…sorry,” she said again. He just shook his head, running a hand through his rough hair.

“No. I…No. We’ll need every advantage down there. If this...well…” He glanced up, expression quiet. “You are not Danarius.” And then he turned away, putting a bit more distance away and leaving her sitting there on her own. 

It was really the first time she had to think, to just stop and consider the weight of everything. 

_Please be okay, Carver,_ she thought again. Leaving him on the street like that, whether he told her to run or not, was something she could not just let go. They had always moved together, always been uprooted because of her magic, or Bethany’s, and every time Carver and Mother had paid the price for that. She had taken so much from him, and now, with the investigation into the Chantry events, with everything else…

Was he paying the price for her even now? Was he still alive? Was Mother alright? The eternal litany of thoughts echoed through her, hollow and solemn in her mind. She gritted her teeth, struggling, and curled her knees up about her chest.

It was Varric who sank into a seat at her side, expression quiet.

“Alright, Hawke?” he asked her softly, glancing to her. She drew a slow breath, hunching a bit lower down. Mostly she was just tired, tired of herself, of making all her mistakes. She drew her knees closer. 

“It’s my fault,” she said. “If I had just found a better way, if I hadn’t used my magic, then I wouldn’t have gotten caught up in Fenris’s lyrium, and I wouldn’t have had to leave Carver there.”

“Little Hawke is resilient. It will be fine,” he said softly. “The Guard Captain knows you two. She won’t let him come to harm.” Sidonie was unconvinced by that. Aveline was protective in her own way, but strict, and she held those responsible when she deemed them in violation of the laws she struggled to uphold. They had been given a pass because of the Blight, but that distinctive advantage was quickly running thin.

“He was hurt,” he said softly. “What if the Templars took him, for helping? He could…be in a prison, or…Maker…” 

“He’ll be alright.” She shook her head.

“It was my fault,” she said, “when we lost Bethany. My fault for not looking after her. We were running, and they came out of nowhere. I could have stopped them. I should have. And…I couldn’t. Carver and I…if something happens to him…” 

“Sidonie.” Again with her name. She glanced to him, and his look was somber and gentle, in a way only he could really pull off. “He will be alright. He’s stronger than you give him credit for, and smarter too.” She just curled her knees up to her chest, setting her forehead there instead. “As another little brother…” he assured her softly. She just shook her head.

He sat with her, for a moment, as the tears came. All that she had left behind, all that had happened, all she could not control. It was her inability to save Bethany, her inability to control her magic, her inability to control the link with Fenris’s lyrium, her inability to stay out of sight. She was the one to blame, and she knew it, and Carver was going to pay the cost for it again. Again. Like he had done all his life.

Oh she knew why he was bitter. The thought of always being uprooted, dragged from place to place, never being enough because she had the magic, Bethany had the magic, and Carver…

No. She sobbed herself down from the rise of guilt, curled up tighter where she sat, and Varric stayed beside her, his hand settled on her shoulder. And then she was leaning against him, not because she had intended to, but because he was sturdy and steady beside her, and soft in his solemnity.

How long she cried it out, she could not say. She lost track of the time, and even of most of herself. And then she slipped back into numbness once more. When Varric finally did extricate himself, she was tired, and already led down against a wagon wheel. She watched his feet wander away, and then wander back, and she felt the weight of the cloak settling about her shoulders.

“You’re alright, Hawke,” she heard softly. “Just get some sleep. Tomorrow is a new day.” Existence is the only choice. 

***

For weeks they traveled, descending downward into the depths of the Deep Roads. There were dangers there, they knew, and Darkspawn, though for the first few days they were lucky to encounter none. This was partly by chance, but it was also due to Anders, whose demeanor had shifted into something far more serious in the darkness.

The Deep Roads were lit by great shining bands of light glowing behind walls of cut rubies and amber, as well as by streams of lava that pooled across the walls and gave everything a sharp heat that left them more tired than ever. In places, the path itself was broken, shifting within the earth or else the ravages of time collapsing parts of the tunnels and sending them about the wrong way. They were following Bartrand’s lead, but Sidonie kept watch. She had not been much for tracking or keeping tabs on where they were, but she had learned the value of a sense of direction, disorienting as the Deep Roads could be with no sense of night or day or direction. She could not guess, in truth, how long they wandered, though Varric and Anders had a better sense of time. For Sidonie the days had blurred together, when they stopped it was to sleep, which made her even more confused, or to eat, which was the only time she realized she was famished. They spent more time practicing as well, she and Fenris and Anders, and made a bit of progress in the doing. They had managed to draw on just enough to power some higher powered spells without danger, without Sidonie losing herself to the magic. And Fenris had found a way to help, though…that itself was still confusing to all of them. 

The Deep Roads made Varric more edgy, and Anders more severe. But in the depths was the one place that Danarius could not find Fenris, and something in the man eased, as if for the first time he was not being hunted. She even caught him smiling softly as Varric teased him over food, and he had started sitting beside her of his own volition now. 

They were nearly a week in the depths before finally Bartrand called a halt. They were staring across a chasm then, over a deep, dark abyss that dropped off far into the earth and made Sidonie dizzy to stand to close to. The chasm had sundered the Deep Roads entirely, and that was when the ranging began, parties delving into the depths, the backwards tunnels that wound around, to find new ways across.

“Earn your share,” Bartrand barked, and sent them on their way. But it was the pleas of Bodahn, the company merchant and appraiser, that really had Sidonie determined. His son, Sandal, had gone missing somewhere in the depths. 

Sidonie did not know much of Sandal and Bodahn, but they had been among the friendliest of the expedition. They claimed to have crossed paths with the Hero of Ferelden, which seemed to be true after a night circled up around the fire with Anders swapping stories. Sidonie had listened, learned a bit about them – Sandal was an enchanter of no small skill, and Bodahn had been born in Orzammar and done work selling goods from the Deep Roads before. Sandal himself was simple enough, barely uttering a word aside from the occasional ‘Enchantment!’, but those he did bother with were careful and steady, and always bright and with a smile. The idea the boy was missing made Sidonie incredibly uncomfortable.

He had last been seen at the camp, but there were only really a few ways he could have gone. Sidonie assured Bodahn they would find him, and Anders – with a heavy sigh – gathered up his staff, agreeing to look. With Fenris and Varric at their back, they took off into the tunnels.

It was there they found the darkspawn. They had warning from Anders, though that made it only marginally better. The first thoughts that Sidonie had was of Bethany, of Lothering, of the Blight descending upon Ferelden. The creatures she remembered were vicious things, their howls cutting through the air as the town behind them burned. She remembered the great horned beast that had slammed Bethany to the ground, shattered her body to pieces and left everything broken in its wake.

This…she did not want to be there. Not even for an expedition. It was not until Varric nudged her onward that she finally did make an attempt. 

For his part, Anders proved instrumental. Without him, they would have been ambushed on a number of different occasions. As they cut though the bands of Darkspawn, Sidonie wondered if that was how it had been for Carver at Ostagar. He had been there, seen such forces overwhelm an entire army, and barely escaped with his life, Lady hot on his heels. She knew he still dreamt of it at night, of those battles.

Aveline had been there too. How many others, she wondered, had gone into that battle, faced down these things. The idea that they had not all been lost gave her some hope. She could kill them at a distance, her magic making short work of them, and purge their corruption with fire before they drew close. So she did so, working as hard as she could, and when her magic started to fail her, she found a bolstering force in Fenris’s lyrium, which made her grateful for all the training they had done.

They learned as well, rather quickly, that other things haunted the depths of the abandoned thaigs. In the tunnels, deepstalkers prowled, though they made good meat. There were nugs, but none alive nearby. There were also giant spiders there, and worse…the stench of dragons. It was the dragons that worried her the most. 

“We can face a dragon,” Anders said. “You already have, and you can do it again. Every single one of us here has brought down a dragon.” She did not know what dragons he had fought, but she believed him. He was too serious to be avoiding the truth, and who knew what sort of things Wardens faced in the Deep Roads. The Archdemon was a dragon, she had heard, so perhaps it was not so strange after all.

When at last they found Sandal, it was not as expected. The darkspawn in the tunnels had made Sidonie fear the worst, but Sandal was fine – perhaps better than fine. He was surrounded by dead hurlocks, their bodies strewn across the cavern floor. Before him, frozen in crystal, mid-roar, was another of the ogres that had murdered Bethany. And before it, cool and calm, was Sandal. 

“Well, I’ll be a nug’s uncle,” Varric said, eyebrow raised.

“Talk about luck,” Anders said, shaking his head and taking in the damage. “Maker’s breath.”

“I don’t believe it,” Sidonie said, shaking her head. “Are you responsible for all this?” Dwarves couldn’t do magic. What she was seeing was impossible. How had he managed such a thing? An enchantment he had made? Something else entirely? The spell was not hers, nor was it Anders’. She didn’t understand the hows or the whys. Instead she simply checked Sandal over.

He smiled a knowing smile at her. She gave a sigh. “And how did you do that?” She nodded towards the ogre, trying not to look too long. It hurt to think of Bethany. 

Sandal just gave a bigger smile.

“Not enchantment,” was all he would say.

Things did not get any less strange from there. Sandal in tow, they meandered further into the passages until they broke through into the remnants of an old thaig, though which it had been was long since lost, and in truth the place was empty of life. A waypoint, perhaps, not a true city. She could not say for sure. 

While Bodahn and his scavenging team dug their way through the artifacts they could find, the rest of them circled up with Bartrand around the maps he was holding close to. 

“We’ve been traveling for over a week, but we’ve barely got anything to show for it,” Sidonie said, arms crossed. “Is there a destination of sorts that we might have in mind.” Bartrand’s look was cunning and sharp. Beneath massive stone statues of long-forgotten paragons towering over them in the main chamber of the thaig, he looked small, but stocky and determined. Maybe that was all it took. Sidonie would rather a plan than determination though.

“Aye, old scavenger tales after the third Blight,” Bartrand explained with a sly look in his eye. “A week below the surface they said. But nobody believed them.”

“And we do?” Sidonie said pointedly.” Bartrand gave a short laugh.

“Damn right, we do. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I’ve sent a few people to check out the route, and the word I got back…well I think we’re in for a really good haul. It’s rare to find a thaig again that hasn’t been ransacked. This…it should be almost untouched.”

An untouched thaig. Sidonie’s look was dubious. Bartrand grinned and crossed his arms.

“We’ll see, won’t we? But yes, I know where we’re going.” 

At least there was that. For now, it would have to do. They had always known it was going to be a risk. Now they just had to see if it would pay off.

***

“Holy shit…” He had never seen something so…well…so dwarven. And yet in so many ways it was not. He knew that Bartrand’s collection of artifacts, and the décor of the surface houses were imported from Orzammar, and sometimes beyond. But this sight was entirely differnet, entirely new. It was deep, and dark, with ancient workings that he had never seen before. Its architecture was entirely different from anything else in living memory. 

“Is…this what you were expecting?” Varric glanced to Hawke. 

She could not know, could she, just what a find they had stumbled upon. When Bartrand had told them he had a lead, Varric had assumed it was like all the rest: a rumor, a mystery, not actually something real. They still had no word about the Amgarrak expedition that had failed, and they had lost some money helping fund House Dace as well. This was their way to regain some regard, or…Bartrand’s way. What did Varric Tethras care for the regard of the dwarven kalnas? 

This had been sold to them as a site of unknowable wealth, a lost thaig, as there were many lost thaigs, but what they had was unlike anything anyone had seen before. That meant its location alone was worth a damn fortune.

“I thought an abandoned thaig,” Bartrand admitted, and for once he was telling the damn truth, the wonder apparent in his voice, “something old, but…what _is_ this?” The red light was not the only source casting strange shadows across the first chamber. There were statues, giant claw-like structures all jagged angles of jet-black stone. Lyrium grew through the walls in blue crystals, but not only blue crystals. Something else as well. Red. Strange. Red. Lyrium. 

They stood atop the steps leading downward and stared.

“Looks like those scavengers were right,” Varric said softly, and then shook his head again, trying to clear away the haze that it might just be a dream. It wasn’t. The soft strange glow of lyrium – including the red lyrium veins – did not fade, and the strange statues stayed as well. He chanced a glance back to Sidonie and Anders, who were likely to feel the effects if they got too close. Lyrium in its raw form could be toxic to anyone, but especially mages.

“Yeah,” Bartrand said before drawing a deep, proud breath. “Make camp here! We need to look around!” 

In truth the exploration did not begin immediately. A few scouts were sent to examine on the immediate surroundings, but then they were allowed to rest, once the perimeter was secured. As the camp closed in for the night, there was a sense of excitement in the air. Sidonie was watching it all warily, uncertain of the lyrium, most likely, and confused as to what they might actually find. One of the men brought back some curious finds from a nearby chamber, as well as reports of a door further in leading into the thaig proper, though they were actually not dwarven but elven – a ring of carved wood with elven designs, for instance – and someone was speaking of a very strange golem that had been guarding the entrance.

“I don’t get it,” Bartrand said as they hunkered around their fire to share some food. “Nothing in this thaig makes sense.” His voice was meant to be for Varric and Sidonie alone, though Blondie was sitting near enough to be listening with a discomforted look.

“Why’s that?” Sidonie asked, pausing chewing her way through some roasted nug to consider Bartrand sidelong. He just shook his head.

“We’re well below the Deep Roads,” he explained. “Whatever dwarves lived here, they came long before the First Blight. But where are the statues of Paragons? I don’t recognize the markings on the wall, or anything in the rubble.” The idea was…disquieting. 

“Who knows how old these ruins are,” Sidonie said simply, looking around herself. “Maybe your people were different back then?” Bartrand’s scoff was enough to discount that.

“I know enough about our history to know we haven’t changed much. Dwarves have been mired in tradition for many ages. These dwarves might have been unique,” Bartrand admitted. “If so, I hope they kept their valuables close at hand.” 

But Varric knew better. Unique dwarves? Hardly. Something very strange was at work in the thaig, and Bartrand was not wrong. There were no Paragons, no familiar construction, and in the depths below the Deep Roads was no place for a thaig. Who had lived here, he could not say, but in the opening chamber there were no bodies, and that was awkward too. 

“I’m going to bed,” Bartrand said. “Tomorrow we’ll want an early morning.” He pushed himself up, tossing aside the stick on which he had been eating his roast nug and bade them all goodnight. That left them still staring about. 

“Bartrand sure seems taken by this place,” one of the other hirelings said softly. “Says he’s never seen anything like it. Maybe some kind of…forgotten city?” 

“Dwarves forget stuff like this?” another said sullenly. 

“I guess so.” But Varric knew that answer too: only if they wanted to. Dwarves only forgot on purpose. 

“I’m going to sleep too,” he said softly, rising from his own seat. His expression was on Sidonie and their company. “Stay out of trouble?” Sidonie’s look was intense, warm oxblood eyes shining darkly in the firelight. 

“Sleep tight, Varric,” she said softly. “And…be safe.” He did not like her tone.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie, Varric, Anders, and Fenris make some strange discoveries in the thaig; an act of betrayal leaves Sidonie's party trapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence; mentions of abuse (Fenris)
> 
> Comments always welcome. Not seeking constructive criticism at this time. ~HR  
> Check me out on [TUMBLR](https://higheverrains.tumblr.com).

Bartrand’s idea of an early morning might as well have been the middle of the night for all Sidonie knew. When Varric shook her awake, half the camp was already up, peering about the strange location and having a meagre breakfast before undertaking the opportunity to have a look around. In truth, the entirety of the expedition had been to find this thaig, and Sidonie did not know what to expect. 

“I was thinking there would be gold, treasure, something…” she mumbled as she joined Anders, who was slowly oiling the metal quarterstaff dragon’s head of his staff with a cloth. His look was grim.

“There might be,” he offered, “but likely not. The goods left will be inside houses, this is barely the front gate.” The grand steps that traveled towards the doors of the thaig were lined in odd statues, pitch black stone that was carved into strange, jagged shapes. But those shapes were not the usual dwarven paragons that had lined the passages before. Examination brought no answers. From some angles they were jagged effigies of dragons, but from others they were claws of dark obsidian stone that glinted in the strange glow.

The strange glow was not alone in its weirdness, but it was certainly the strangest thing there at the endness. It was lyrium. It felt like lyrium, it hummed like lyrium, it glittered and sparkled like lyrium, and it made her dizzy like lyrium. But was worse, something darker, something else. It was red and its rhythm felt off, cacophonous. Sidonie kept a wide berth from it. Anders caught her staring.

“This thaig is strange,” he admitted, and for once they were in full agreement. She gave a sigh and a nod. But he paused his polishing to consider her. He put his thoughts to things no one else had yet. “There are no darkspawn here.”

“Not any? Not even further in?” What did that mean? The darkspawn ruled the Deep Roads. Maybe they had all gone to the surface? But surely some were left over. They had encountered a few here and there in the roads. This…it was deeper, lower, further in and further down. There should be more, he was right. “Why?” she asked him, and he shook his head.

“I can’t say,” he replied. “I don’t know.” The thought did her no favors. 

As they began their explorations, things grew even stranger. In the tunnels they did start finding artifacts and relics, but they were not dwarven in a way that Bartrand recognized. This might have been overlooked as changing times, had it not been for the fact the dwarves really did not tend to change with the times, or so Bartrand claimed. And there were other things in the depths of the thaig among the relics that could not be so easily overlooked: carved wooden rings, containing insignia that was not dwarven, but elven. 

“The site might have been contaminated?” one of the workers suggested. They could not think of any other reason for it, at least…not any reason that actually made any amount of sense.

Bartrand took one look at the find and had a different thought.

“Elven goods sell as well as dwarven.” And that, it seemed was that.

Over the course of the next few hours they succeeded in reaching the edges of the thaig and decided that I was time to move into the business of exploring the depths. 

“Varric!” Bartrand’s bark echoed into the eaves of the chamber. “Take the Warden and your Fereldan dog and see about finding a way into the chambers. We want something good from this.” Varric shuffled along, hoisting his crossbow Bianca over his shoulder and then meandering up the steps, brushing past Sidonie and motioning for them to follow. Sidonie heaved her pack onto her back, and Anders did the same, and the turned to follow. Varric did not seem excited. 

“This entire place gives me the chills. I just hope it’s worth it.”

“Chances are,” Sidonie said simply, “we won’t find anything except more rubble…”

The corridor led towards the edges of the thaig, where everything opened up into more grand chambers, these more intact than the earlier chambers. There were ornate crenellations carved into the walls, decoration in the older styles that were massive. 

But as they descended further, the weirdness made itself apparent again. The first of them appeared out of nowhere, shades, causing a rippling across the Veil that made both Anders and Sidonie draw up short.

“Look out!” Anders called, and Sidonie reached for fire and force. It rippled out even as the mechanical twang of Bianca firing echoed across the chambers, and then Fenris was charging through, sword raised high, his own glowing lyrium markings adding to the strange haze of the lyrium thick in the walls.

Shades were remnants, or so she vaguely recalled being told by her father once. They were not demons, not truly, but what was left when demons on the wrong side of the Veil were unable to take a true form. But finding demons in the Deep Roads was strange, and she had fled Kirkwall thinking that she would find some freedom from such things. She would not have thought, with the dwarves so disconnected from magic, to find anything linking to the Veil or spirits or demons so far down aside from the mages already there. It was an unpleasant surprise. 

“Maker’s breath, what are they doing down here?” she demanded once they were felled. 

“Tevinter was allied with the dwarves once,” Anders said weakly. It was not a good enough explanation. 

The met no more shades however within the first chambers of the ruin, passing through the great gates and into the thaig proper. They were instead met with more of the red shimmering of lyrium. It was protruding from the walls of the thaig.

There were pillars as they climbed through the chambers, lit with molten lights even after so long, shining deep and dark and lighting the steps to the higher pillars of the room. As the corridors opened up, Sidonie paused, and her gaze narrowed as she caught sight of artifacts higher up. There were a few chests, carved stone and heavy, and also a dais. Atop the dais was an altar, and atop that, some relic, strange and unique. 

She could feel it, the ringing of lyrium. But it was made of the red sort, not the blue. And that had every nerve on edge. 

Varric drew up alongside her, then gave a low whistle while Anders checked the corridor leading further along the room. There was no further sign of movement, only the relic, an idol carved with the figured of…well…whatever it was, it was not dwarven. 

“We’ll want Bartrand to take a look at this,” she said softly, and Varric nodded. Fenris drew a slow breath, then drew back the way they had come. 

“I’ll fetch them.”

“And Bodahn,” Sidonie told him. He was the closest thing to an expert they had. While Fenris took the corridor back to the earlier antechamber, Sidonie and Anders took a better look around, heaving the lid from one of the chests and finding it packed with treasures.

“What was this?” Varric wondered, still studying the idol.

“Why is the lyrium red?” Anders said in turn. 

“It feels wrong,” Sidonie said. Cruel, angry, hot, searing. She drew as far from it as she could, and then crouched before the chest to consider the treasures within. 

“It’s definitely magic,” Anders said, chancing a glance back at the idol. “And not the good kind.”

“It doesn’t look like any kind of lyrium I’ve ever seen either,” Varric said with a soft sigh. None of them touched it, not yet, but Varric finally reached out, the only one left in the room that might have been able to. 

There were footsteps then, the return of Fenris and the arrival of Bodahn, a few other men, and Bartrand. 

“What is it now, Fereldan bitch?” Bartrand called, peering about the place, unimpressed and hassled. Sidonie scowled, and Varric stepped between them. He shook his head, finally reaching for the idol.

“No, I called for you. Look at _this_ , Bartrand.” He held it up, and Bartrand climbed the steps, motioning for the other men to get to work on prying the lids from the other chests. Bodahn came to examine the contents piece by piece, eager and starting to talk prices. Varric would not be deterred. “An idol made out of pure lyrium, I think. Could be worth a fortune.” Bodahn reached to pry it from his hands for a closer look.

“You could be right,” he mused, examining it. And then he looked to the other findings. 

There were strange relics, all of them odd, though these were not made of lyrium. Bodahn gave an accounting of the prices, something steep indeed. It would more than pay for the expedition. And given the strange findings thus far, it was a significant find. But the lyrium idol was the most intriguing. Bartrand mulled it over, turning it about in his hands. 

The visage was of strange beings, clinging to a woman at the center, on her head an odd, pointed crown that made Sidonie uncomfortable. As Bartrand drew away with the idol, Sidonie narrowed her eyes, drawing up alongside Anders. 

“Do you know,” she said softly, “it...reminded me of something.”

“Andraste,” he said, expression discomforted. Varric shook his head with a soft sniff.

“Bah, don’t worry about it.” As the workmen started to haul the chests out down the steps, the burliest of them shifting the stone together, Bodahn in the lead, Varric glanced back.

“There’s got to be more further in,” he said. Bartrand gave a nod. Varric looked back to the others. “Fancy our luck?”

“Might as well take a look,” Fenris said. They were there already after all, so Sidonie gave a nod as well with a final troubled look towards the idol. 

“We’ll see if there’s anything further in,” Varric called to Bartrand, who was already on his way down the steps after the workmen, the idol in hand.

“You do that,” he said with a low nod. “Get some carts down here, let’s load these goods up for inventory.” And then they were left again alone. Sidonie considered the next corridor, closed to them by a door, and gave a little nod.

The next few corridors led to a few more finds, but nothing like in the first chamber. The pieces were broken shards here and there of pottery or bent bits of metal, good to sell to hardcore collectors or for scraps, but not anywhere near the value of the relics they had already found. 

The Deep Roads far from the expedition took on a strange sort of sensation, the echoes of scittering rocks falling or the bang of creaking metal slowly protesting the years washing through the halls like surf on the shore. The entire thing felt incredibly alone, as if they were alone, as if they were not there with an expedition at all. It was strangely unnerving. At any moment they might encounter more trouble, and those troubles were unknown. Anders’s presence assured them there were no darkspawn, but those shades earlier had been unexpected, and there were other dangers in the Deep Roads as well. The thaig was strange, ancient, predating Orzammar perhaps, if Bartrand was right, and there were questions of its structural integrity. 

They dedicated a few more hours to the search, and no more. Sidonie could feel the strange antagonistic hum of the lyrium through the walls and eventually called a stop to it, wanting to be back in the larger chamber where she could stay away from it a bit. Here it felt more concentrated, more full. She did not like what that might mean. Her head was pounding, so she nudged Varric and called to the other two men to wait.

“Let’s head back, take a break for some food, and get out of these halls for a bit.” 

“Yeah,” Varric said with a nod, his expression equally wary. “It starts to box you in a bit after awhile.” No Deep Roads dwarf was he. 

They made their way back to where they had found the altar and the idol as well as the other treasures, but there were no other workmen doing a tour of the chambers.

“Strange,” Anders said softly. “I would have thought they’d want to study the ruins?” Apparently not. 

But as they reached the far corridor, it became apparent why they were alone. There, at the end, etched in massive metal gates, heavy and thick, were the doors. They were shut. 

A flutter of panic erupted.

“The doors!” Sidonie said, hurrying forward, her bag sliding from her shoulder as she ran. Varric was hot on her heels. She shoved at it, but it did not budge, hauled at the edges, but nothing. “Help me!” She called back to Fenris and Anders, but even together they had no luck. 

Varric turned instead to calling out.

“Bartrand! Bartrand!” Sidonie had not expected an answer, but there was one, soft, muted through metal, echoing through the cracks.

“You always did notice everything, Varric.” And it became abundantly clear that the doors had not just shut on their own. They had been deliberately closed. Sidonie gave a low hiss and a curse. Varric stared at the door as if it were Bartrand.

“Are you joking?!” he called through the crack. “You’re going to screw over your own brother for a lousy idol?!” 

“It’s not just the idol!” Bartrand replied. “The location of this thaig alone is worth a fortune! And I’m not splitting that three ways! Sorry, _brother_!” 

“Bartrand! _Bartrand_!” There were no more replies. Varric slammed his fist agains the metal of the door. “I swear I will find that son of a bitch – sorry, Mother – and I will _kill_ him!” 

Anders hauled Varric back from the door, reaching for magic for his hand, which was bleeding, and Sidonie reached for her own magic instead, for force. If they couldn’t open the gates, she would wrench them free instead.

No luck. The thaig itself shook at the impact, the gates ringing like a giant bell, but they did not give. Instead, a chunk of rock came tumbling loose from the ceiling, and nearly hit her if not for Fenris hauling her back from the door. And then they were well and truly sealed in.

Sidonie let out a raging cry, turning about and tearing her hands free, reaching for more magic, fire, and smearing charred marks across the stone nearby in her rage. And then she sank back, raking her hands through her hair and setting her back to the wall, peering at the others.

“Shit!” Varric hissed, at a loss to say much else, pacing sharply across the floor and crossing his arms over his chest. Sidonie felt a wave of anger and rage. 

They had spent months trying to buy onto this. This was their break, their only chance. It had been a risk, but she had always believed she was going to be coming back, that she would have something to show for it. She needed it. For Mother, for Carver. And there she was, trapped in a thaig. 

“Kal’Hirol had a secret exit,” Anders said softly, offering a chance. “Maybe the same holds true.” It was their only chance really. The alternative was to be trapped there in the stone walls, entombed forever. No. 

No, she was not going to die in the Deep Roads. Not after Bethany. 

_Maker, give me strength,_ she thought. The very air in the thaig felt full, the red lyrium all wrong. There was an eerie red light that glowed from the walls, veins of something that sang like fire and anger in her soul. Her head ached to draw too close. She gritted her teeth against the pain.

"We're getting out of here," she said, more firmly than she felt. "And when I find your brother, Varric, I'll prove just how mad a cornered bitch can be."

Varric just gave a heavy sigh, turning his gaze on her, expression disbelieving and distraught.

“Let’s hope there’s another way out of here,” he grumbled, and then glanced back the way they had come. 

“Back down the corridor then,” Sidonie said bitterly. “And keep a sharp eye.”

But they were not entirely without help. She reached to gather up her bag, and while doing so fished about inside for some travel bread, which she doled out between them.

“Be careful with it,” she said, not knowing if they were actually going to be able to get out or not. They may need it to last a bit longer than originally thought. 

They took the only path open to them, Sidonie led more by anger than anything, determined to find a way out, or make one, and in so doing get her hands round Bartrand’s neck, or set him aflame, or crush the life from him. She calmed her thoughts, feeling dizzy from the red lyrium, and fighting to maintain a bit of control. That stuff was making it hard to think. She didn’t know what it was, but Anders was right. Whatever magic it was linked to was evil. She chanced a look at him, and he met her eyes, saying nothing. 

“What did the exit look like?” 

“A hidden door,” he said simply. “If there is one, it will be further in. There may even be another exit into the Deep Roads.” She could only hope. 

But being trapped turned out to be the least of their problems. The shades at the exterior had not been alone, and as they moved further in beyond the chambers they had searched, Sidonie started to feel strange descrepancies in the Veil, and that was when they began appearing again. 

 

Sidonie was already angry, the lyrium sharp and toxic in her mind, and she took it out on the shades in a flurry of force and anger. In truth it was the first time in years, perhaps ever, that she was capable of really getting use from her real powers. She didn’t hold back, whirling through them. Those that escaped her magic – not many – were met with the force of her blades, trained against her brother and mercenaries for years. 

“They shouldn’t be down here,” she said when all of that was done. 

“There might be more,” was all that Anders said, looking worried. 

He was right to be worried. There were more. But these were no shades. They emerged rather suddenly, further into the thaig, as they traversed the chambers that opened up into bright chambers lit by lyrium again. They were not demons, at least not in the same way. They were physical beings, stone, undead perhaps, or something that made use of scattered dwarven bone and rock to take shape. And they were as friendly as the shades. 

It was not fire that scattered them apart. She turned to force instead, aiming her spells at their heart to blast them apart. And when they were dead, all four of them were left staring, standing. 

“Bloody flames, what were those things?” Varric asked. Sidonie had been hoping he might have the answers. She just shook her head staring. 

“I couldn’t say.” Worse, there were still shades as well. Whatever had happened there was so horrible that there were demons even in the depths of the Deep Roads. She thought again of the fields where her father had spoken of the spirits drawn by the weak veil to the sites of old battles, and she thought again of Kirkwall, and the thought made her blood run cold. 

They had to fight their way from there, through more of the rock creatures and more of the shades. And that was when they found one that could speak. The moment it did, she could tell, the strange echoey sound of its voice as it called upon them to stop.

“Enough!” She heard the voice, the same one from Justice, and she felt Anders go tense beside her. She glanced to him, then back to the demon. Rocks or no, it was one of them, or one in their form. She could not entirely tell the difference. She gripped her staff tighter. “You have proven your mettle. I would not see these creatures harmed without need.” Sidonie bristled.

“Without need?” she spat. “I’d say being attacked on sight gives us _plenty_ of need.” 

“They will not assault you further. Not without my permission.” That seemed unlikely, unless these rock monsters were also demons, under the control of the demon speaking to them now. That demanded that they be careful, but at the same time, they were getting deeper into the thaig, and they would die whether or not that happened because of demons. But the creature was also in her way. 

“What are these things?” Varric hissed. “They seem like rock wraiths, but – ”

“They _hunger_ ,” the demons said, and Sidonie gave a low hiss. “The Profane have lingered in this place for ages beyond memory,” the demon told them simply, “feeding on the magic stones until the need is all they know.” Sidonie grimaced.

“They eat the lyrium? Sounds like a healthy diet.” Her voice was laced in disdain. She believed this story, of them eating lyrium, though why anyone would wish to…

She gave a low growl. 

“I am not as they are. I am a visitor,” the demon said simply. In truth, Sidonie did not know if the Profane as he called them – or rock wraiths? – were not the remnants of whatever dwarves had lived there, possessed themselves by the shades, but even that was a strange thought, and she didn’t know enough to make decisions. 

Nor, in truth, did she care.

“You’re a demon feeding on their hunger,” she snapped. “I can sense it.” The demon shifted.

“I would not see my feast end,” it told her. Demons, always trying to cut deals. “I sense your desire. You seek to leave this place, but you will need my aid to do so.” Sidonie shook her head, taking a step back, twisting her halberd staff in her hands. Did they? Things did seem hopeless, didn’t they. And yet…

And yet they had come this far. It was one demon. And this was a trick. It had an interest in all of this, and that interest did not mean it was really the truth. 

“Don’t do it,” Anders said, and it was surprising coming from him, all things considered. “Demons will trip you up every time.” It sounded like her father a little.

_Magic will serve what is best in me, not that which is most base._

“What are our options though,” Varric asked. Sidonie shook her head. The demon gave a low rumble.

“There is another door that leads into the paths far above us,” the demon told them. “That is what you seek. It has been sealed, however, and cannot be opened without a key. I know where the key is. Do as I ask, and I shall tell you.”

They could find this key on their own, or batter down the door if necessary. She glanced to Fenris, and he gave a soft nod, understanding what she was planning. If they had to bring the thaig down to do it, he would help her. Making a deal with a demon…that was unnecessary.

She reached deep for magic, feeling it crackle along the lyrium core shielded in her staff. 

“No. We’re not becoming your next meal.” The living were far more appealing than the dead, she knew. There was only a moment or two before the creature was upon them. Varric nocked Bianca, and Anders reached for cold, and it was his spell that caught first, before Sidonie went to work with more force magic. 

The demon, the abomination – there was a body in the center of this creature as well after all – burst to pieces, and it was Anders who hit it with arcane energy, banishing it back into the Fade. 

But there was also a benefit. If the creature had been speaking the truth, that meant that there was a door out to the Deep Roads, and that meant they had another way out. They just needed to find a way through the seal. 

Thus emboldened, she carried on.

 _I’m escaping this place, and then that’s it. I’ll never enter the Deep Roads again_. She was going to get back, to see Carver, and Mother, if she could. Perhaps she might only be able to send word, but she was going to go, to try and make sure her family was fine. And then she was going to hunt down Bartrand. She was not going to die in the Deep Roads. 

“Come on,” she said as they reached a rock corridor. This was not the carved walls of the thaig but uncut stone cleared roughly. It felt different, the lyrium sharper, and there was a strangeness to it all.

At the end, they found a set of carved steps arching up into another open chamber. And at the far end of it, settled in the depths across behind the pillars, was the second great door, smaller than the main door but still a masterpiece all its own. 

“That must be it,” she said, and climbed the steps. Varric, Fenris, and Anders hurried up after her. 

“If we can get it open,” Anders said, “we can head off Bartrand and the expedition before they can leave.” 

“What is this place?” Sidonie asked, peering about the chamber at the top of the steps. It was massive, the ceiling arching high overhead, supported by more ornate pillars, the same as from the front chamber where they had made their camp, the obsidian obelisks. The exterior walls were all still roughly hewn stone though. It felt…unfinished? She didn’t understand why they would build this thaig and not finish it, unless this was related to whatever had happened there to finish off the dwarves. Profane? Rock wraiths? She grimaced.

“This,” Varric said, far more interested in the actual location itself than the profane for the moment, “is the vault.” They paused at that. He was not wrong. There across the room, in piles of coins and artifacts, was a treasure trove, enough to make them both rich. Forget the artifacts from earlier, and the idol. This was in raw coins, real money, things that could actually be sold without appraisal and confusion. This was the sort of thing the Merchant’s Guild wanted. That fool Bartrand had missed his damn chance, sealing them in. This was all theirs. 

“The dwarves brought their – ” Whatever Varric was trying to say cut off. Behind them, the rumble of rolling stone. Sidonie whipped about as Varric fell silent. 

As they watched, it formed, tendrils of red binding the rock together into the shape of the Profane, another of the creatures, taller than the others, towering up the ceiling of the room. It stared down on them a moment, a hulking mass of stone. Force magic was not going to break this apart in one go. Varric stared. Sidonie reached for his coat. 

“That…can’t be good…” was all he managed to say before she hauled him along, racing for the far side of the chamber, for the columns that held up the ceiling, and hauling him behind on as the creature roared, and a beam of red light erupted outward, screaming with the same song as the red lyrium.

Her hand left Varric’s coat, and she clapped her fingers over hear ears, crying out at the pain of the sound, at the pain of the feeling as it reverberated across the chamber, rippling outward. Shards of pure red lyrium peppered out like a hail of arrows. Sidonie crouched back against the obsidian, the only shelter she had, and screamed. 

And then it was done, the energy spent, and it went silent, only the movement of rocks. 

“Sidonie!” she heard someone call. Varric? No. Anders, who was sheltering behind another pillar, Fenris as his side. “Sidonie movie!” She stared a moment, then panicked as a rock came slamming down alongside her. She and Varric darted out from behind the pillar on the other side. 

The rock wraith? The Profane? She didn’t know what it was. It rose up above them again, and this time she reached for magic, darting over towards the others, reaching out for Fenris. 

“Fenris!” she spat, and he was there in a moment, racing after her, the lines on his skin glowing. She felt the rush of lyrium, almost too much, toxic and heady, sweeping through her. She reached for her magic, filling herself with it, and aimed as best she could. 

Fire and force. Sharp, hard. If the chamber could withstand the profane’s attack, it could outlast hers. 

It hit the creature hard, sharp and fast, all her mind behind it. She was not going to be able to fight for long. 

“Anders, be ready!” she cried. She was going to need his help too. For his part, he was ready. He already glowed with the light of Justice flickering through him. Varric was cranking Bianca again.

It was the might of the Veil richocheting outward that tore through the creature, smashing the stone. That just made it angrier, but she could not stop, channeling through the energy inside her, aware that there was no Carver to save her this time if she took in too much. She was surrounded with lyrium, surrounded with all of it, dizzy and angry and unable to really control it. Again and again she lashed out, and again and again it rippled through the stone, until finally she had shattered through its form, scattered the stone into pieces, and then she reached for flames. 

It died a silent death in the end. She was not even sure it was dead. Perhaps it was not. But it fell to pieces, and it did not rise again. Sidonie, still in the flow of magic, struggled and fought, until Anders reached for her wrist, for her hand, clasping it tight, and lending his magic to the spell to block hers. The rest was her own a sheer exhaustion. She wavered on her feet, and it was Anders who caught her. She slumped against him, feeling the rush of the Fade from him, from Justice, and that proved too much. 

Everything washed through her, everything burning along all her nerves, and she felt hot tears on her cheeks. Someone was crying out. Anders? Fenris? 

Carver?

She didn’t know. Everything went black.

She thought she was dead. She honestly thought that had been the end. So it was a surprise when she did stir, and everything in her hurt. She blinked her eyes open slowly, and found her head in Anders’s lap, where he was washing healing magic over her as best he could, his eyes back to normal. Sitting with his back to the nearby pillar was Fenris, who looked worse for wear, but alive. And Varric was standing over them all, still staring across the chamber, expression exhausted and angry. 

“Maker’s blood.” That was Anders. “Hawke…” 

“Anders…” It hurt to think, to speak his name. He shifted his hand instead to her head, soothing healing magic there instead.

“Hold still. That was…a lot of energy, a lot of lyrium.” She did as told, because she had no desire to move. 

“Is it dead?” she asked weakly and with effort. 

“Yes, we think,” Varric said. “Maker’s breath, Hawke, what kind of magic…?”

“Don’t ask her questions right now,” Anders said simply. He was wincing too. “We need to get out of here. The lyrium…”

“Key…” Sidonie managed, and Varric nodded. 

“I’m going to check the vault. It has to be over there.” Sidonie just lay where she was as he wandered off. He did not go far, because as he dug through the piles of treasure for the key, he carried on talking. “The rock wraiths are supposed to be dwarven legends,” he explained from across the chamber. “They’re not even supposed to be real.”

“Looked pretty real to me,” Fenris said in a low grumble.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter…” He paused, the creak of a chest opening, then shutting and then he emerged back with the key in hand. Sidonie, still a bit dizzy, slowly shifted, trying to push herself up. Anders shifted, then weakly helped her up until they were both standing. And then he reached out a hand for Fenris, who ignored it and pushed himself up unaided, though he looked tired too. 

Varric glanced back to them, holding up the key, but then nodded to the rest of the treasures. “Look at what it was guarding,” he said. He considered them, and Sidonie shifted the pack on her back. Most of the treasure was coins, or small obsidian idols that matched the pillars. “Let’s collect the best pieces and then go.” They could not take it all.

They took the coins, easiest to sell and worth the most, small enough to carry a lot, and filled their packs and pockets with it, making sure it was as much as they could. They could split it four ways, though Fenris didn’t want most of his, and Anders said he was only going to spend it on his infirmary. Amidst the coins they found a staff, though, cold to the touch which held a wash of sorrow, and that made Sidonie avoid it. Anders though took it, testing the heft, and then taking it along. 

“It’s good quality,” he said.

“And weird,” Sidonie pointed out. He just gave her a small nod. 

“It is enough,” he replied. “Justice likes it.” That made it worse, not better. 

The key did work on the doors, a massive thing that let the tumblers fall and allowed for them to be pushed outward. It was ridiculous how easily these ones moved with the others sealed so tightly. 

But it was also obvious the trail led upward, the steps rising high from the depths of the thaig and the uncut stone walls from the treasure vault and through a few more chambers until finally the air felt…clearer? Or perhaps warmer. 

When finally they followed it to the end, the steps had led them high enough they were dizzy from the climb as well. They had to stop on the steps, to rest and to get a bit of sleep, as well as to have a bit more to eat. At least the steps had drawn them away from the lyrium, and there still were no darkspawn to be seen. They were safer, and that was the best they could manage. 

Sidonie sat on the steps, considering their options. Varric just stared up the steps.

After a bit of rest, they resumed their climb, until at last they broke through to an empty tunnel that looked different from the ones below, more like the surface roads. Sidonie swallowed, staring at the path, and Varric gave a soft sigh.

“I think this is the way back,” he said softly.

“How long?” Sidonie asked. Varric gave her a quiet look.

“Don’t eat that food all at once, Hawke,” he advised. “If we’re unlucky, maybe a week.” Sidonie gave him a slow look.

“And if we’re lucky?” Varric scowled, chewing on his tongue a moment.

“We stumble over Bartrand’s corpse on the way.” There was not much for it than to go at that. Sidonie watched as Varric took off at a steady pace, down the corridor, then glanced to Anders, and then Fenris, both of whom just gave quiet nods. She shifted the pack at her back, and then drew a deep breath before turning to follow. A long trek back, but a chance at least. 

And when she saw Bartrand, she was going to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ON THE ARTIFACTS  
> The vhenadahl ring is an actual artifact you find in Bartrand's Folly in the game, and vhenadahl is elven wood (the trees at the center of Alienages, though I imagine it has older roots). Given what we learn in Descent in Inquisition's DLC, this also stands to reason there would be some more elven artifacts in such an old thaig linked to Titans. Yes. This thaig absolutely IS linked to Titans. The other relics are all over the thaig, but I decided to center them in one room so as to make it easier to contend with. The staff is also one of the treasures kept in the vault, and was originally made in the lost thaig of Valdasine (according to its codex), which had strange disappearances and such as well prior to the Blights. 
> 
> NOTES ON THE DOOR, THE RED LYRIUM, AND THE GUARDIAN  
> The magic the Guardian uses in Descent is similar to the sort used in DA2, and in Descent we're told it's getting hit with pure lyrium. It is actually standard that mages are meant to suffer a lot from exposure to pure lyrium, and Red Lyrium is an even more toxic source (it's a Blight), so...I wanted to portray that as it is in the lore, and not how the game does. I wanted the impacts to matter, especially as we go forward. The door likewise is a bit different. Many of the thaigs we visit have big chambers and gates that mark the start of the thaigs (arguably including the DA2 Primeval Thaig), and I wanted that to be a grand gate more like Bownammar or the Segrummar Gates in Heidrun given the age and grandeur of this thaig. It's this that I let Bartrand close. I felt like it would be a better story element if he could pass it off as something collapsing or whatnot, and Sidonie's force magic certainly did that trick. I couldn't imagine the rest of the expedition being just fine with ditching everyone without an excuse, and without finding anything, hence why I moved some of the artifacts closer to the main chamber. I wanted there to be some sort of haul for people to encounter, and a better excuse. 
> 
> As for the Profane and the Hunger Demon...there's more we'll get into about it shortly. Sidonie herself doesn't come equipped with the knowledge base for this to really make sense for her. She does the best she can, and so I tried to write her POV for this in much the same way as she herself might see it. I don't want to make her an omniscient narrator (or any of the characters for that matter). Hence the inconsistent descriptions and such. <3


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aveline deals with more of Kirkwall's political situation, and yet another failure; a furtive Sidonie arrives home to bad news; Varric cuts a deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please feel free to leave comments, but I am not requesting constructive criticism at this time. :) -HR  
> Check me out on [TUMBLR](https://higheverrains.tumblr.com) for more content.

Aveline slipped down the marble steps from the Viscount’s Keep, trying to work out the best thing to do to promote the security she desperately needed for Kirkwall. Since Sidonie had brought her news about the nobles fled from Ferelden, she had worked closely with Sergeant Maverlies, whose role was only slightly less than an ambassador. But Sergeant Maverlies was no ambassador, and she could not demand the Viscount’s office hold the Reinhardts and their allies to account, no matter who she spoke for. The new King and Queen in Ferelden were, from Aveline’s account, good people – veterans of Ostagar who had stayed when she had journeyed north, gone instead to the war when Aveline had fed. The new monarchs had, from what she could tell, high public support back in Ferelden, and these nobles were dregs, if that, of the new reign. But that did not make them less dangerous.

Aveline’s loyalties were now to Kirkwall, and her responsibility was what went on within Kirkwall’s walls. Her father had been an Orlesian Chevalier, and she had been Aveline du Lac before marrying Wesley when he was yet posted at the Chantry in Denerim. Aveline’s father had sold everything he had to buy her commission to King Cailan’s army, and she was grateful for that. But Ferelden was a land of things lost to her now, hurting and painful, and the king she had served was not the one who sat the throne now. 

All the same, Ferelden had been home, and she had some allegiance left, some determination to see that it found peace after so long. And so she had already determined to do what she could, for Ferelden yes, but also for Kirkwall. Another murder in her walls would help no one. 

Sergeant Maverlies, unable to touch those nobles, had departed to Denerim some few days ago. The journey would take some time, but she had expressed her intent to commission the Queen and the King to send an emissary, a true ambassador, who could raise their concerns with the Viscount. In the meantime, Aveline would do everything she could to prevent further interference in the outside affairs of these Harriman’s, and to do so, she needed Prince Sebastian Vael’s help, the word of Grand Cleric Elthina, and the help of the Kirkwallian Port Authority. 

It was a lot to do, and much of the relationships between the City Guard and agencies like the Port Authority were founded in deceit and bribery, the hold-overs of Captain Jeven’s command. It worried her as well that there were still those among her guardsmen who were corruptible, and whatever else she thought of Sidonie, she knew she would not lie about this. Guardsman Donnic Hendyr was digging into the ranks, trying to root out the parts of the guard that were still as corrupt as ever. Guardsman Brennan was on a full security detail. Aveline herself had been forced to admit she needed a different sort of help in contending with the Port Authority, and that had meant reaching out again to Isabela. 

Whatever else Aveline thought of her, and that was not much, she did know the way the docks worked, and the way that those without ties to the guardsmen were capable of getting more done. Aveline did not know what strings had been pulled or what promises Isabela had made, but she had used her power to good effect. Aveline had not wanted to ask. Since Isabela’s intervention, there had been a limiting of attacks on ships in Kirkwallian waters, and Harrimann ships had proven safe from raiders since. That was troublesome, because it said a number of things about the Port Authority and Isabela herself, but it was also a good benefit. Aveline did not like the way it had been accomplished, but she could not deny the results.

Isabela was among those that she wanted to eventually remove from the city – the chaff that was left over, the undercity’s criminal element. She did not know why Isabela was there, or what her goal in remaining in Kirkwall was, but she did not fully care either. In many ways, Isabela’s ties to the Felicisima Armada made her both an asset and a danger. 

Kirkwall would not change overnight. Small steps, but sure ones, were necessary. And eventually that might put her into conflict with the likes of Sidonie as well. 

But Sidonie had done the work she had for mercenaries and for smugglers because she had needed to. It was that, ultimately, that had earned Carver his reprieve. Aveline wanted to believe desperately that Sidonie and Carver had not been involved in the attack on the Chantry, and in truth there were many mages in Kirkwall who were responsible for the murder or absences of citizens. It mattered that it stopped. But she was also willing to submit to the truth that this must be a Templar investigation, not hers. The Templars had taken in Carver, and that would hopefully be enough. 

She hoped it helped him as well to find a sense of purpose a place of his own. He spent so much of his time chafing against the life he had been given, instead of seizing the opportunities to make something of it.

She took a direct route in the end to the Chantry. It was beautiful, that sound, but was also heartbreaking. Wesley had been the believer. Aveline did not know. She believed that the world was made by the decisions people made, and she believed as well that the world demanded her attention far more than an absent Maker. 

But as she approached, she realized that there were services going on, something she had not been planning on, and a number of Sisters and Brothers were engaged in comforting a slew of finely dressed mourners.

Prince Sebastian was waiting for her there, clad in simple Brother’s tunic, somber and solemn and dark, instead of dazzling armor. He greeted her with a quiet nod, expression concerned.

“I have news,” he said, expression disquiet, voice very quiet. Aveline said nothing, simple giving him a pointed look. “Lord Harrimann was found dead this morning.” 

She should have been the first to know about it. The fact she did not sent a flicker of anger through her, but then she gave a calm breath, trying to think, to know. 

“How?” she asked him simply.

“In his bed. Perhaps sleep?” he said simply. “They would not have sent for you, but…I think it is something more.” She did as well. He was elderly, but not overly so, and if it had been a mere matter of dying in his sleep, why now, so suddenly, with so many enemies. “The family has entrenched. I have extended my condolences, but still have no answer from them. Either someone is blocking my messages, or they do not wish to speak with me, and given events…” Of course. He would not wish to push it. She drew a slow breath, and then glanced up towards the chancel were Grand Cleric Elthina stood in prayer with a group of assembled mourners.

“I have a request of the Grand Cleric when she is free, and it is perhaps more important now given this information.” Sebastian gave a quiet nod, then glanced up to the chancel as well.

“I will speak with her. If you will wait awhile, I can see to it she joins you after the service.” He motioned for one of the other Affirmed, nodding to Aveline. “Will you take the Guard Captain up to the Grand Cleric’s office and see to it she has refreshment and the Maker’s succor?” The Affirmed nodded and the motioned for Aveline to follow.

Aveline did, and as she went, Sebastian Vael crossed the floor to join the mourners on the chancel. 

She waited for quite some time, almost an hour, though she did not mind. It was understandable. She remained standing, more out of concern that her armor would make it impossible to stand again if she sat, but she did make a point of taking a slow tour of the room, examining the artwork, depictions from the Chant of Light. When at last the door opened, she looked back to find the Grand Cleric in her ceremonial robes studying her with eyes like chips of slate stone. 

“Guard Captain.” Elthina had a weak voice, a thread of steel but certainly not anything that inspired people to follow. She had buckled, again and again. But anyone who knew the history of Kirkwall was aware that it was Elthina and Meredith together who had stood against the previous Viscount Perrinwold, who had brought him down when he had tried to carve a kingdom out for his own, and deliberately installed Viscount Dumar in his place. It was this woman who had made the institutions of Kirkwall deliberately weak, and paved the way for the corruption that Aveline herself was dealing with now. 

But Aveline knew the power of the Chant, the power of faith in dark times, and with these arguing nobles stabbing one another in the streets and bribery commonplace, she was determined that it was time to turne the might of the Chantry into a message. 

“Grand Cleric, an honor.”

“Sebastian said you had need of the Chantry’s help,” Elthina said, folding her hands carefully together before her. Aveline did not mince words.

“I need your support in contending with the nobility, on a mission of mercy, Grand Cleric.” Elthina’s look was quiet and betrayed nothing.

“I have urged all I can. It is for the Maker to decide now, child.”

They both knew what they were speaking of, Aveline knew. She gave a little shake of her head. 

“There are those in this city who would see children of the Maker suffer for their charity given. I ask only that you beseech the people of this city to have faith.” Elthina gave a quiet sigh.

“I shall speak to it then, Guard Captain, but they will do as they will, as shall the Maker.” That was as good as she was going to get. So Aveline let it drop and gave a quiet salute out of respect. 

“Remind them then, Grand Cleric. Thank you.” She drew a slow breath, then paused a moment before looking back to Elthina.

“Yes, Guard Captain?” Elthina saw the pregnant pause, waiting to see what would come of it. Aveline thought better. Instead she gave a little shake of head.

“Nothing.” For a moment her mind had been on Wesley. But no…not now. Perhaps not ever. She had already said her farewells, and the Chantry would not help her grief. That mourning was her own.

She let it go, and retreated to the door with a final nod. She had other things to do, more leads to follow, and this was a result, even if not the one she wanted. 

She wondered again if she should speak with Isabela, but there was little else that the woman could do in truth, and the Port Authority was by far the most obvious success, even via back routes. For a moment she wondered at her next move, and then decided perhaps just to wait, to see what would happen next. 

And she would put a watch on these Reinhardts, until the political might to chase down those who had murdered Lord Harrimann might be brought to bear. Slow steps, but sturdy. The best she could do.

***

She stank. The sweat and weight of the Deep Roads made her tired and feel heavy. She was covered in dust and her hair had taken on the oily, dull sheen of dirt and too many days unwashed. All the same, when they did finally surface, she felt more forboding than she did relieved. Somewhere out there was Bartrand, and the issues with Kirkwall had not truly changed. She could hope a few weeks had given them less reason to chase her, but she could not be sold on that. 

It was Varric who came with the answer. He was not an apostate, and not wanted, not yet. And he was well known in Lowtown, which meant he could at least reach some people. So it was decided that they would linger outside the city until they had more news, and Varric would go in alone to seek out someone who could give it to them, namely Isabela. 

She was, after all, one of the only people in the city removed from the events the other day, and who would know if Carver was alright and what Aveline had been doing. Sidonie was afraid of the news, certainly, afraid that things would be worse. It would be even worse if Bartrand had returned and told the story he most likely had given: that they were lost in the Deep Roads. The thought of her mother hearing that…

No. No, things would be fine. She would get word out, and they would bring down Bartrand, with Varric’s help. This was not end, but a beginning. She had enough money from the goods in their packs to help Mother and she intended to. She was not going to be defeated by this.

When Kirkwall came on the horizon, Fenris, Anders, and Sidonie slipped down along the Wounded Coast towards the shore while Varric carried on towards the city. Sidonie took the opportunity to wander straight into the water not even bothering stripping off her clothes first. They would dry in the sharp sunlight, and she wanted to clean them too. She scrubbed at the fabric as she sank under the waves, ducking down into the briny water and emerging again feeling overly heavy and weighed down by the leather. She started slipping off the heavy armor she was wearing, her mercenary gear which she was prepared to cast aside as soon as she possibly could. She slid out of the quilted jacket and then her trousers, until she was standing in just her underthings. She slid her hair from its tail and then sank down into the water to scrub it clean, grateful for the chance. 

She noticed Anders and Fenris nearby doing much the same, though Fenris had left much of his armor behind on the shore. She did find herself chancing a glance back, rather unexpectedly. Anders had a back criss-crossed with scars. Fenris’s tattoos dipped down across his entire form. She turned her eyes away demurely, aware suddenly she was staring, and gave a soft blush before ducking back under the water again. 

They were gathered on the shore around their drying clothes in various states of undress when Varric finally returned, and in his wake Isabela, who took one look at them and then drew clothes to wrap her arms about Sidonie. She met her embrace with her own, giving a heavy sigh of relief just to see her there. Isabela was a friend, if nothing else, one of the few people who she trusted in Kirkwall not to turn her in, and someone who had a way of getting the news Sidonie needed. The raider let her hold her a moment, then drew back, considering the others, then meeting Sidonie’s eyes with her own the color of fresh honey. 

“When Bartrand returned, we feared the worst,” she said softly. “News round the tavern was he lost half his team, and since you weren’t among them…” 

That was not the news Sidonie had wanted to hear, but it helped to know it. 

“My Mother?” she asked. 

“No one’s seen her. She’s been keeping to herself. I think she went to see the Viscount, but…I’m not normally up on that end of town, kitten.” No, of course not. Sidonie drew back, and Isabela considered them.

“Well, I can say this much: Bartrand was eager to get out of town as quickly as possible. He might still be there, but he only returned a few days ago, and much of his team is still around.” She shook her head. “Tell me what happened?” 

So they did. While they waited for their clothes to dry, Sidonie and Varric recounted what details they did still have, and Isabela perched on a rock to listen, expression pondering. Eventually she gave a small nod, expression thoughtful, before crossing her arms and her legs, thigh-high boots of soft black leather glinting in the sunlight.

“From what I can tell you,” she said when they were done, “Lady Man-Hands has been kept busy with other work. She’s been chasing down all manner of people. Some noble turned up dead, and she’s been trying to root out some corrupt people in her guard. She’s even asked me for help dealing with the people down at the docks, so you can tell she’s desperate.” She considered them, then gave a soft sigh. “As for the search, I think you’re back in obscurity again. If she catches wind you’re back, she may ask questions, but…if you move fast enough you can head those off. The search appears to be mostly the job of the Templars now, and they have proven very good at finding people, as you well know.” The sarcasm was thick. It brought a bit of relief. Sidonie gave a small nod, and Isabela answered a few more questions, these from Anders about darktown and a few contacts. When that was done, they worked their way back into clothes. Sidonie kept her coat off, tying it about her waist instead to stave off the heat, and bundled her gear up with her bag, her staff at her back as always. It would be that which would give her away more than anything.

It was determined that they were best waiting until nightfall. Anders spoke softly then of a few ways to get in and out of the city without passing through the gates, tunnels that the Mage Underground often took, which he said they might use, but only if everyone promised to keep them secret. 

Sidonie was a wanted apostate herself now, and Fenris was known to keep her company now, and in as much trouble for his lyrium markings as anything, even if he were not being hunted by Tevinter slavers. So they made their promises to hold the locations secret, and finished the last of their food before the night began to fall. As the sun slipped over the horizon and deep streaks of color dyed the clouds overhead in smears of bright, deep shades, they packed up their things and set off towards the edge of the town. 

Anders took the lead from there, picking his way along the coast rather than the road, hunting down the cavern exits that might lead them into the depths of Darktown without anyone seeing their coming or going. Isabela followed them, expression solemn and serious. As they picked their way along the coast, Sidonie fell in alongside her, voice quiet now as she pressed for the information she really wanted.

“Have you had any news of Carver?” Isabela’s look was quiet, and she took a heartbeat too long to think before she finally gave a reply.

“I don’t know where he is exactly. He hasn’t been charged, that I know of, but…you won’t like it, Hawke.” Her eyes were serious. 

Sidonie felt her heart drop, her breath catch. A thousand possibilities raced through her mind. He was in prison, or held under guard. Mother had found out about it all and there had been something terrible happening between them as a result. Carver had gone to Bartrand, who had decided to try and get rid of him. All these and more, a thousand thoughts a moment, and she gritted her teeth. 

“Tell me.” 

“He left the Keep with a group of Templars,” Isabela told her. “At least, that’s what I heard. No one has seen him since.” 

So they had him then. He _had_ been taken prisoner. It was one of her worst fears. 

“If I learn more…” Isabela said before trailing off. Sidonie just nodded.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said instead. Now she needed to think, to decide what she was going to do next. 

They followed Anders into one of the tunnels, and the glow of magical fire blossomed as Sidonie lit a light. It danced across her fingers, anger and irritation and concern like usual. But it lit the way, and it gave her a sense of purpose, at least until they reached the higher tunnels and she had to let it fall away as they approached more populated areas. 

Anders went for his infirmary, and Varric parted ways with them as well as they emerged into the lowest levels of Darktown, citing a few contacts he needed to follow. 

“Check on your mother, Hawke,” he told her with a flat, angry voice. “I’ll see if I can track anything of Bartrand, and let you know.” 

“Be careful, Varric,” she told him softly, and he gave a small nod.

“Yeah. You too.” And then he was gone, disappearing into the Carta’s haunts. Sidonie carried on climbing, wary now that they might still recognize her, but no one did. No one spoke a word. As long as she was careful, they would be fine. 

It seemed strange how much had changed and yet how much had not. There was no Meeran, and no Athenril, but disreputable sorts still lurked in Darktown and owned the lower streets. She was a wanted apostate now, but no one knew who she was, and in truth the rumors circling were about Anders’ return, which was oddly comforting in a way. She did not mind the conversation being focused far from her.

In truth, she felt this was all her fault. She should have done more, should have kept Carver safe. Instead he had saved her, and now he was in the Templar’s hands. She did not know how her mother had lasted, what had happened in her absence, or even where to go from there. But she would get Carver back. She was decided on that. She would see it made right.

As they emerged into Lowtown, shady characters lurking in the darkness here and there, she felt a sinking sensation. Gamlen’s house smelled old, like usual, as she finally climbed the steps. She did not knock, though she did bid farewell to Isabela and Fenris at the steps, and then she let herself in.

The first sight was Lady, bounding to her feet, racing to the door with a joyful bark. Sidonie gave a low sigh, dropping her bag and sinking to her knees to gather the dog into her arms, big as she was, and burying her face in the animal’s fur.

“Sidonie?” She looked up then, catching sight of Leandra, standing in the door to the bedchamber, eyes red-rimmed and tired. By the fire, Uncle Gamlen was staring, shocked, as if he had never in a million years expected to see her walk back in. Sidonie pushed herself up.

Her mother’s arms found her, and she felt the tears of relief cloud them even as her mother draw her close, the shock of it ricocheting through her. 

“I thought you were dead! They told us…when they told us…! Maker…!” She curled about her instead, clinging to her, burying her face in Leandra’s shoulder even as her mother did the same. “My girl, my little girl…” 

“A fine mess,” Gamlen said, but there was no bite to his words, just a quiet exhaustion. Sidonie drew back then, and Leandra looked to her with a conflicted despair.

“Sidonie…Carver…”

“I know,” Sidonie said quickly. “I’m going to get him back, Mother. I promise…it’s my fault they have him…” The look on Leandra’s face as she slowly shook her head made Sidonie pause, draw up short. “What?” Leandra looked confused, trying to find the words to explain what had made her give a vehement shake of head. It was Gamlen who said it.

“He’s with the Templars,” he said. “The day you went missing, they hauled him in to the guard to answer for whatever happened – what happened, by the way?”

“Gamlen.” There was a quiet warning in Leandra’s voice, and then she looked back to Sidonie. 

“They didn’t take him,” she said. “He joined them.” 

It took too long to sink in. For a moment it sounded entirely false. The words did not register. And then Sidonie had to sit down, sinking heavily back against the counters lining the wall to stare.

“He…what?” 

“They recruited him. He’s joined the Order.” Leandra’s voice shook. Sidonie’s breath caught, conflict and confusion flickering across her face, and then she shook her head. 

“No. No, he wouldn’t. He…he…” 

But he would. He had turned in the Starkhaven mages, had he not? He had done work for them, and done it properly. And the force he had used to cut short her magic…

He was a Templar. Carver was a Templar. Ser Carver.

She drew a deep breath, hanging her head, trying to come to terms with that. And then she closed her eyes.

“Sidonie…” Her mother’s voice was soft, but still it made Sidonie flinch. She pushed hurriedly up from the counter, and reached for the heavy bag she carried. 

“No.” She cut her off. “No, Mother, I don’t want to…no.” She hoisted the bag then, unwilling to mention the contents to Uncle Gamlen, and then pushed past her towards the chambers she and Carver had shared. All his belongings, what little he had, were gone. There was only the space they had shared.

She did not have the energy to process it properly. So she didn’t. Instead she sank down into a seat, closing the door, alone for the first time in weeks. It was no comfort, even though it should have been. Instead she just sank down, her back to the wood, and wrapped her arms about her knees, sinking her head into her knees to cry.

***

There were many people who knew the moment he was in town again, and many who would take that as a sign to get out fast. But there were two people who Varric was willing to bet were well installed in the halls of the Merchant’s Guild, busy with business, and not prepared to move on. 

Rumor made it very obvious very quickly that Isabela had been right: Bartrand was gone. But his contacts were there, and moving quickly enough would let him work out exactly where he had gone. 

What he needed was a paper trail, something to follow and track. What he needed was someone who had every reason to get back in touch with Bartrand again sometime soon. That meant someone doing business with him. 

And there were only two people doing business with Bartrand in the wake of that expedition.

He found them in the tavern up in the Merchant’s Guild, the father pouring over accounts, and the son considering a pile of runes with his usual acumen. When he entered, there was an immediate hush as people saw him, and then someone greeted him, and that was when Bodahn Feddic looked up.

“Hallo!” Sandal said at his approach. Varric gave him a small nod, but his brown eyes fixed on Bodahn’s gaze instead. 

“Hello,” he said simply, sliding into a seat. “Been awhile.”

“Messere Tethras,” Bodahn greeted. “We’re so glad to see you alive. When your brother said that there had been a cave-in – !” Varric leaned in then, giving his head a little shake. 

“Yes, well…let’s you and I have a chat about my brother.” There was a wariness in Bodahn’s gaze, but he too leaned in.

“Alright.”

“Let’s start at the basics,” Varric said simply, eyes sliding once more to Sandal. “Tell me where he went.” He shifted his shoulder a moment, hoisting the bag from over his shoulder and setting it down alongside the table. “And you’re going to tell me just how much this is worth.” Bodahn gave him a solemn look, and then gave a smaller nod, more confident now.

“Alright, Messere. I think we can cut some sort of deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES ON THE RETURN TO KIRKWALL  
> It really didn't make sense, given how she left, that Sidonie would just walk on into the city without this being checked first, and I wanted to give Isabela a bit more of a role in how things turned out. Also, Carver made his decision some weeks ago, and so I also didn't want Sidonie running across him back at home. So things turned out a bit differently to canon (for good reasons). As for Bodahn and Sandal, it's really weird that Bodahn becomes Hawke's servant for no reason given he's a successful businessman and he thought you were dead and should have moved along by then. He IS however good at fencing goods (and always has been) and Varric and Sidonie still need a good fence, so that seemed a better reason than "You saved Sandal! I am now your servant!" especially since Bodahn himself comes from Orzammar and has a defined sense of the caste system from his entire life being lived down there, and servant caste is the lowest on the rung, whereas merchant is quite high, and that difference would be more a big deal than the game gives it any credit to be. So...appraiser duty instead.
> 
> NOTES ON HARRIMAN  
> He's dead as of Sebastian's quest in Act 2, even if Hawke spares him from Meeran's quest. Since Meeran is not the only mercenary around, I figure it was probably murder that got him, and so a couple weeks after the initial plot, down he goes, while it's still politically convenient. Poor Aveline has such a hard job. XD


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidonie returns home to find everything has changed; Sidonie makes some decisions and has a change of scenery; Nate finally returns to Denerim; a long-awaited wedding takes place; Nate has a new mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: none
> 
> Enjoy the slightly early public release (I'm busy tomorrow and wanted it posted sooner rather than later).  
> Thank you for reading Book 6! Comments are welcome but I am not accepting constructive criticism at this time.  
> This is the last chapter. There will be a 2 Week Hiatus for planning purposes. In the meantime, there are a number of other offerings under my works, and please check out my [TUMBLR SITE](https://higheverrains.tumblr.com) for additional lore, theory, video links, and conversation. Best, HR. <3

It was another week before the funds started trickling in. Still no word of Bartrand, and still no sight of Carver. He was lost to them, she realized simply, as much as Bethany might be lost. What little interaction that he did still have with his mother came in the form of a messenger, who quietly delivered a purse of gold. Sidonie did not touch it. Mother carefully pocketed it, and vanished off to cry. 

Blood money, that was, paid for with the lives, the imprisonment of mages. Sidonie wanted nothing to do with it. 

It was Varric that finally coaxed her out, a master of businesses himself now that Bartrand had vanished. He had seized his assets and properties, and had enough business acumen to turn them to his advantage. It was he who dragged Sidonie and her mother out to a tailor whose shop was just off Hightown. As the tailor bustled about, taking their measurements, Mother took the chance to explain how her meeting with the Viscount had gone. There were debts still to clear for the estate, which had held her back before when Sidonie was still gone, but with Bodahn selling off the goods they had found, turning that into hard cash, those debts would not last for much longer. They could afford them now, and they would. 

She couldn’t make up for Carver’s betrayal. She couldn’t make up for the fact that there would still be trouble with the Templars now, and with others in Kirkwall. She couldn’t bring back Bethany, or her father. But she could do this. She could get her mother her house back, could get her better conditions to live, something more than Gamlen’s little shack.

She would go, as soon as she could, as soon as she looked more like one of the people who belonged in Hightown rather than someone who was wanted by the law. She would need to be careful, but if she didn’t take her staff and she got cleaned up a bit…well…she and Mother could sway Seneschal Bran to let them purchase the house.

It was not her dream. If she had her way, she would move them both out of Kirkwall as fast as she could, get away, somewhere far away, and maybe make a life of it somewhere else, where they didn’t know her. But she was also tired of running, and Mother was tired too, and with Mother the only one left, she was determined to look after her. 

As payment for selling her out to Meeran and Athenril, Uncle Gamlen could stay in his hovel. She had already decided that.

The clothes did not arrive for a few days, and in those few days she kept a low profile, not even showing her face at the Hanged Man for the time being. Isabela and Varric came to visit her, and Isabela assured her that she had seen to it Fenris and Anders were both safe. Despite her efforts, though, Aveline’s search for the nobles trying to disrupt the relief headed for Ferelden had been unsuccessful. Lord Harrimann was dead. 

Merrill came to visit too, and Sidonie did not have the heart to send her away. She spoke of a delivery she was expecting, and she exchanged a few quiet words with Varric about it before her departure.

“Has his fingers in all the pies,” Isabela said with a mirthless smirk. “Glad he’s on our side.”

“Aw, Rivaini,” was his reply. “Good to know you care.” Sidonie had been quieter, but had promised them both a drink the next time she could visit the Hanged Man. By the time they had left, and Sidonie’s new clothes had arrived, there was nothing else for it. She made her way to Mother’s room, while Uncle Gamlen was out, and sank to a seat crosslegged before her where her Mother was brushing her fingers over the brand new silk of her gown. 

“Are you sure this will make you happy, Mother?” she asked softly. Leandra looked to her, eyes blue like Carver’s, and Sidonie met them. For a moment her mother was quiet before she slid her hand from the silk to brush her fingertips over Sidonie’s cheek.

“My darling,” she said softly. “I will be happy somewhere you are safe, so long as my children are happy.” No. Not a good enough answer. Sidonie let her gaze drop, and Leandra gave a sigh. “You remind me so much of your father,” she said gently, sadly. Sidonie turned her face away, brushing her mother’s fingers from her cheek and shaking her head. For a moment there was quiet, and then Leandra drew a slow breath, calling her back by her name. “Sidonie?” Sidonie looked, eyes sliding back to the blue of her mother’s. “Thank you. It…it wasn’t your fault. Bethany…Carver…your father…none of this.” Sidonie just hung her head. 

“Carver made his choice.” There was bitterness there. How long before he turned her in? Did he hate her that much? No. But he was angry, she knew. “And the Darkspawn took Bethany. Illness, Father. But we wouldn’t have needed to flee, if it had not been for me. If not for me…”

“Hush…” Her Mother slowly brushed the gown aside and sank to her knees, wrapping her up in her arms. “Enough. Tomorrow, we will speak to the Seneschal, and then we will be safe.” 

“Safe.” The word sounded hollow. Sidonie wasn’t sure what safe even was, not anymore. Kirkwall felt a trap, a tether. “Safe.” 

***

She didn’t have enough to pack, in truth. Only the satchel that they had brought from Lothering, and that full of no small amount of goods. The items from the Deep Roads had been entrusted to Bodahn Feddic and his son Sandal, who were finding good buyers with Varric’s assistance among collectors across the world. The funds slowly crept in, though a lot had gone quite quickly in an auction, enough they had been able to clear the debts and purchase back the deed to the old Amell estate in full. 

When they moved, it was to a number of new things. Mother did most of the work in that regard, filling the house with fine furniture she had ordered from as far as Nevarra and Val Royeaux. Other things were sent from Starkhaven. Sidonie let her. She did not have it in her to deny her the chance to make a new life for herself, to fill it with all the trappings of the world she had once known. 

When it came to choosing chambers, her mother insisted she take the largest. She wanted only a small chamber off the main gallery, where there was a chance to reclaim some of the life she had lost. Together they worked to clear the place of any evidence of the slavers, and the Amell coat of arms was replaced once more above the fireplace in the main room.

Lady loved it. There was finally space to roll about and play, and play she did, and Sidonie was glad to see that. But it was a massive change from the hovel where Gamlen stayed, and it was a massive change as well from their small house in Kirkwall. There were too many rooms, too many chambers that echoed. Sidonie filled them instead with people where she could. Bodahn and Sandal moved in under her roof, lending their skills to her mother to furnish the rest of the house. She offered space to Fenris, but he was determined to stay in the mansion up near the Chantry until he knew more about his Tevinter master and his plans to track him down. Merrill had her own home, cozy as it was, and Isabela and Varric preferred their tenure in the tavern, though Isabela made a habit of dropping by to visit. 

As for Anders, she had the lower chamber with its passage to Darktown sealed closed with magic, and gifted him the room. It was not much, and only she or he could get through the seal if there was need to run. It gave him some privacy, a place that was not his clinic to stay. And it kept her mother from venturing into Darktown, or rougher sorts venturing up. 

In that way Anders was as much a guardsman as he was a guest. She did not expect trouble from him. She saw to it he was fed, and had a place that was safe to sleep, a thank you. She did, after all, owe him her life. 

Mother took to entertaining, to visiting old friends and reforging connections among the nobility of Kirkwall. The story was simply that she had returned after the Blight, with her daughter, and her son who was now in the Templars, and that her father had left her and her children the estate in Hightown. It was enough of a cover. People knew Sidonie had been in the area, and that Gamlen still was, but they knew her in passing, or as a mercenary, and Sidonie maintained that pretense. Mother did her part as well, saying Sidonie had always run a little rough, but that she was good with polearms, and she was more than capable of earning their keep, settling Gamlen’s debts. 

Everyone knew of the debts, it appeared, and Sidonie wondered just how long they would be haunting them. It was through those contacts the story finally emerged of just what had happened in the days when her mother had still loved Malcolm Hawke. Leandra Amell had defied her family to be with a Circle Mage, and soon enough had found herself pregnant with Sidonie. 

Uncle Gamlen in those days was already known for his gambling, whoring, and drinking in the local establishments. He had never been much good at the games, and often lost. Leandra had protected him, and when she learned she was with child, she had sought Gamlen’s help. He had gotten word to Malcolm Hawke. They owed their escape the Gamlen. An odd fitting circle of fate that they had owed it to him to be allowed back in to Kirkwall. 

After Leandra’s flight, Sidonie’s grandparents, Lord Aristide and Lady Bethann isolated themselves, and few beyond the walls had seen much of the Amells since then. Some spoke of servants, or of dealing directly with Gamlen in those days. And then things became even worse, as Revka, an Amell cousin, gave birth to a mage child. Revka packed up what remained of her family and fled Kirkwall for safety, but rumor followed, and before long she had lost all four of her children to the Circles. Revka’s brother wound up involved in trouble with the law trying to protect her, and Sidonie’s Great Uncle had gone bankrupt seeking legal protection for the family. The Amell’s money was draining away. 

Lord Aristide and Lady Bethann both became ill with cholera as they aged, and a epidemic swept the city. The illness claimed Lady Bethann’s life, and Lord Aristide lost much of wits. He did amend his will, however, gifting Leandra the estate and his wealth. 

 

It was there that Gamlen’s debts truly started mounting. The Great Uncle, Lord Fausten, had turned to a criminal operation called the Council of Five, which Sidonie knew still existed in the depths of Darktown, and he had borrowed himself into and early grave. Damion, the cousin, had died in prison. All debts had been transferred to the last remaining Amell upon their death: Gamlen.

Those were the debts that still stood, that still grew. It was those debts that had forced Gamlen to sell the house, and why he had gone through the finances held in trust for Leandra. It made Sidonie forgive him, but only a little. He had sold her secrets out, but in a way she could not blame him.

She had offered, in the end, to let Gamlen come and stay, but he had refused, turned her down. After a year of living with a full house, he was glad for his own space. It did not stop Sidonie from quietly settling some of those remaining debts. Not all. She wanted him to stop gambling, stop wasting away his money, but she did a little, to protect him, at least…as best she could without him finding out. After all, without him, she might never have been born. 

In those days, everyone was curious, wanting to see the new Amell, wanting to know who this upstart young daughter was. Sidonie did not take the name. It was an act of defiance, but it was also one of identity. Hawke. She kept Hawke. She was not an Amell. She was a Hawke. Her money was new, earned, through blood and sweat and tears. And her father had just been an upstart nobody.

It helped as well to keep at bay the suitors that might have otherwise swooped down upon them. It may have delighted her mother to plan it, but Sidonie was not in a mind to take on any marriage or bond simply to strengthen blood ties. Kirkwall was a home of sorts, but it was not a comfortable one, and she hoped it never became such. 

Instead, she planned to stay apart, distant, and different, to hold tight the things that made her someone real. She could feel Kirkwall, its hold tight about her, constricting and cold, and she never wanted to become a part of it. 

When everything was moved in, all the furniture purchased and installed, all the people settled to come and go as they might, the bookshelves filled with a number of books, and her mother once again moving in social circles, Sidonie finally had the chance to sit down and decide, for the first time in a long time, what she might like her life to be. 

Meaningful she decided. After all, existence was the only choice. She made her choice, to do better, to be better, to be more, to harden her heart and not get tied down, to live for her, and to live well. In the grand scheme of things, she was no longer going to be defenseless. 

***

Denerim was a riot of color. Areas still needed rebuilding – the market was new but there were areas of the city that had been leveled or burned in the Blight that had yet to be recovered. The palace itself was still under construction, though much of it was decked out in flowers and garlands. As Nathaniel rode in on his horse, a fine Amaranthine Charger, the hooves crushed fragrant white petals that had drifted from the garlands across the whole square before the palace.

There were nobles in the square, Arl Bryland and a few of his Banns gathered for the events, and ambassadors from a number of nations engaged in trade, all there to bear witness to what was happening. 

The Blight had hit hard, and the fields had burned. There were still shortages, but agreements with men in the breadbaskets of the Free Marches, and across the northern Bannorn had enabled them to get through the winters and manage a least a little semblance of a functionining country. They were weak still, but strengthening. To many, the display of flower garlands and feasting might seem obscene, but it was necessary. Ferelden needed to look strong, look sufficient, look capable. Weakness would allow their borders to be challenged, and so to Fergus’s eyes, it made sense. A moment of brightness. 

Eideann and Alistair had not been foolish though, to hold such gifts above overs. There were laymen in the square as well, and the celebrations extended outward from the palace, where sweet cakes had been baked with imported grains, jams and creams and wines cheap for everyone. How they had paid for it, Nathaniel could not say, unless the payment came in gratitude itself. But he suspected it was the work of Arl Eamon, of Arl Bryland, and of a number of Banns that had declared themselves devoted to Eideann and Alistair’s reign. 

It was a chance, of course, and an important one. This was the symbol of all they had worked for. What had begun at the Landsmeet with the naming of two monarches would be sealed here with the reunification of Ferelden itself.

He slipped from his horse, stroking its nose before turning the reins over to the stablehand who came to collect it. Behind him, he heard the heavy sound of others dismounting, and glanced back to where Keenan was carefully getting down, his mabari Lucan at his side. Nathaniel gave him a quiet nod, and then drew a breath. 

“Will you report immediately?” Keenan asked him softly, drawing up alongside him as the stablehand helped Sigrun from her pony – she was no good rider, that was for certain.

“No,” Nate said gently, a quiet smile on his face. “Soon, but not just yet. There’s a wedding to attend first. Let us save business for later.” He turned towards the palace doors, giving a nod to his uncle, Bryland, who stood in the hall beyond them. “I will, however, go and see Eideann.” Keenan glanced to the other Wardens, and then gave a small nod.

“I’ll handle these lot, make sure they behave.” Nate gave a soft chuckle.

He found her where he thought she might be, down in the royal wing, beyond the bustling servants who were lighting candles and decorating the vast Landsmeet Chamber with drapes of soft pale gold silk and shimmering ribbons of silverite strands. Eideann’s chambers were large enough apartments, and he was admitted by Nesiara, who recognized him immediately. She gave him a bow of head, and a warm smile.

“My Lord,” she said softly, and he gave her the bow back, which only made her blush. Within there were others he knew, or at least that he knew in passing, familiar faces he had seen all his life: Alfstanna Eremon in Coastland Blue silk, and Fergus Cousland, the Teyrn of Highever, his liege lord now, he supposed. He greeted them both, warmly, and then caught sight of Eideann herself.

She was clad in a gown of glittering white, beset with soft silver stars, and with fine lace down her arms woven in Fereldan patterns. Tangled in her hair was her crown with its silverite laurels, and at her finger the ring she had reclaimed in the silverite mines, a twist of iron and silverite itself. She stood before a mirror, slowly brushing down the skirts, and her eyes caught sight of him in the reflection first, before she glanced back. A veil of lace pinned along the lower back half of her crown spilled down her shoulders to the floor and the train of her gown, and she gave him a gentle smile. He caught sight of the hint of the scar along her wrist underneath the lace of her sleeve. 

“Nate.” Hearing her voice after so long felt unreal. It eased something through him, though for a moment he thought he might perhaps hear her bark him an order instead. But no. Instead she glanced back to the mirror, reaching out a hand to him, the arm with the scar. He took it in the same one he had his own scar, and brought it to his lips with a soft smile.

“You look beautiful, Cousland.” She gave a soft little laugh at his words, and a bright smile as she peered back at the mirror, and he caught the quiet breathlessness to her. They knew one another well enough for him to know what that meant. “Nervous?” Her eyes shut before she turned to face him, drawing her arm free and crossing them before her loosely.

“No,” she told him, though her voice shook just a little. “I’ve looked and archdemon in the eye. I hardly think I should be nervous about looking Alistair in the eye.” But she did chance a final look to her reflection before opening her mouth. “Did you - ?”

“No.” He interrupted her only because he had to. “Business later, Cousland.” She drew a deep breath, then gave a shake of head. 

“Alright.” He glanced back then to Fergus, who had crossed to join them. Eideann paused a moment, then said softly, “Will you stand with me, in my honor guard? Wear our colors.” A Howe at a Cousland’s wedding, in part of her own guard. Maker, what a sign that would make. He drew a slow breath, thinking, and his eyes fixed on Fergus, who gave a gentle nod. He had a scar alongside his eye, Nate realized, and didn’t recall where he had seen it. 

“If you wish,” he said simply. “But I have nothing in your colors.” Fergus reached to clap a hand to his shoulder. 

“Then come with me,” he said simply, leading him back towards the door. “We have.” Eideann gave a small smile, and then her chin rose as someone else appeared at the door, a woman with bright red hair and a softness of complexion. She wore a gown of Orlesian silk, and at her shoulder, holding close a red cloak, the sigil of the Chantry. 

“Eideann! You look like a dream! A vision!” Eideann’s laugh was clear. 

“Well if anyone would know…” she said softly, reaching for her in greeting this time. Nathaniel drew back to make room.

Fergus led him down the apartments corridor towards another chamber, where there were others already gathered, clad in the colors of Highever. 

“Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan and a few others will stand with Alistair,” Fergus said softly. “Eideann wanted this to be Highever’s day.” 

“It’s her day,” Nate said simply. “Everything is always so political with your sister.” Fergus gave a small laugh at that, and then helped him find some of the armor, which glistened and shone. Together they managed to get him into it, the soft velvet doublet, the doeskin trousers died deep blue, and the ceremonial armor that did not feel like his own and yet did. And then at the back a cloak. But this was not the sigil of Highever. It was the Howe bear on a field of green. Nate considered it a moment, then glanced to Fergus.

“Are you sure?” he asked softly, and Fergus just gave a nod, reaching to fasten the cloak to the pauldrons, to make it clear just how sure. 

“You are her friend, and have known her for many years. And you knew her as a Howe, not a Warden.” But the bear on the cloak was still a call to that new bond as well, for as he considered it, he noticed the creature had the addition of silver griffon wings. He gave a soft smile at that. 

There was a soft shift in the corner, and another man, also in ceremonial armor, gave a soft laugh to see it.

“It is not so terrible,” came the soft accent, and Nate glanced up to see Zevran watching him, studying him with sharp eyes. 

“I thought the Crows were hunting you.”

“They are also hunting Eideann, I am sure. I do not trust their word. And if there was ever a time to be wary of the Crows, it is at a royal wedding, yes?” His own cloak was the basic Cousland colors, quartered with the royal mabari sigil and the mask of Antiva. “I could not miss bella’s wedding, however.” 

“A risky business,” Nate said, but held out a hand in greeting, which Zevran clasped a moment before drawing back.

“Indeed. And yet here I am.” He quirked a grin, then motioned to the others. “Shall we prepare?” 

“I think all is about ready,” Fergus said softly. “The Grand Cleric will arrive shortly.” Nathaniel nodded, then drew back, stepping into the corridor in his new gear. By the time they had drawn back to the door, everything was prepared. 

“Ready?” the red-haired Chantry sister said softly, speaking to Eideann. Eideann, now armed with a bouquet of blood-red flowers and deep mint green laurels gave a soft nod. “Then we should not delay any longer.” She made her way to the door, and the rest followed, until Nate was left holding the door and only Fergus and Eideann were left.

“Mother would be so proud of you,” the Teyrn said softly. “And Father would tell you that you look beautiful.” Eideann just gave a gentle little smile.

“I know,” was her reply, thick with emotion. “Now go before I cry and get all blotchy.” He gave a soft laugh, leaned in to press a kiss to her forehead, and then turned to brush past Nate into the hall.

“Alright then, Pup. We shall see you wed.” Eideann followed, giving Nate a small wink, and Nate just grinned in turn.

***

Her feet felt heavy as she stood at the entrance to the Landsmeet Chamber, at one of the doors nearest to the foyer. She had never really overcome the sensation she felt upon entering it. She only ever did so with the intent on waging war of one kind or another – political or mental. This was the second, a recognition that things were shifting for her on that day. She stood there, feigning confidence, while her heart pounded in her chest, her hands gripping tightly to the bouquet of roses and laurels. She could hear herself breathing, the slow intake and exhale. Everyone but Fergus had already gone ahead.

Alistair was there, she knew, waiting at the far end by the altar with the Grand Cleric. The chamber was full of all manner of people, her own nobility, and others from abroad, ambassadors from almost every nation. Her friends were there, and some enemies, and the ghosts of everyone who could not be there. 

She felt tears prick at her eyes. She was wearing her crown, but the silver jewels with their serpentstone and sapphires were her mother’s, the jewels of the Teyrna of Highever, which Fergus had insisted she take. She thought briefly of her mother, of her father, of Oriana and Oren and Ser Gilmore and Nan and everyone else that they had lost to reach that point, and drew a slow breath to calm herself.

She was Ferelden’s Queen. And the man out there was the man she loved. 

There came a cheer, bright and fierce, and that then was her sign. Alistair had taken his place, and now it was time that she take hers. 

She closed her eyes, drew a final breath for courage, and tightened her grip on Fergus’s arm. He gave a small smile, though he looked every inch as nervous, and then gave her a nod.

The walk was a long one, from one end of the chamber to the other, and a walk she had made too many times of late. This time what waited at the end was still a destiny of sorts, but not the cruel one, or the heavy one. She let her eyes skim the crowd, which bowed as they passed, one by one. She saw Leliana among a delegation sent from Val Royeaux and the Grand Cathedral to bear witness to the wedding of a Thedosian monarch. At Leliana’s side, Angus, Lucan, and the Wardens flanked around Keenan. Oghren gave her a gruff little nod of respect, more than anyone else had earned. 

There were ambassadors from the dwarves there. Bann Shianni stood in an elegant gown that drew from elven styles. At her side, Advisor Valendrian, the Denerim Hahren. There were no Dalish, though they had sent their well-wishes some time earlier that week. Arl Bryland was standing on the opposite side, with much of the Bannorn, and his eyes were shining as he made his courtly bow. 

As she neared the steps and Fergus stepped up the first one, they were flanked by the emissaries they had chosen: Nate, Zevran, Alfstanna. Each stood there, grand in Highever’s colors, cloaks at their backs. On the other side, Bann Teagan of course, but also Archmage Wynne in royal Theirin colors of crimson and gold, her cloak declaring her allegiances to the Circle. At the step below the top, Arl Eamon, who was wearing his own cloak, and who gave a wide smile as she slowly climbed the steps.

And then, of course, Alistair, who shone. There was a wonder in his eyes, where he stood in armor of silver and gold and deep crimson velvet. His cloak was the same Theirin sigil as before, and he could not take his eyes from her. 

She reached the top step, and felt Fergus shift, and then Alistair was catching her hand as Fergus gave a bow and retreated down to take his place on the same step as Arl Eamon. Alistair held her gaze a moment, before glancing to Fergus over her shoulder, and back. Eideann gave a small little smile, her fingers squeezing his own, as they turned together to the dais. 

They lit the candles to Andraste, there atop the altar, Ferelden’s Grand Cleric intoning the Chant for them both. And then they stood, hands clasped, peering at one another, for the words to be spoken. The traditional ones, but something extra, something that held meaning just as much for them.

Alistair spoke them first.

“I swear unto the Maker and the Holy Andraste to love this woman the rest of my days. I, King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden, take thee, Eideann Haelia Eleanor Cousland of Highever, to be my wedded Wife and Queen, with all your faults and strengths, to join with you and share all that is to come. I promise to love thee wholly and without restraint, by the life that courses within my blood, and the love that resides within my heart, in life and Beyond, where we shall meet, remember, and love again. I will love, honor, and respect you all the days of my life, by the Maker’s grace.” His voice was strong, not a hint of hesitation, and she let out a breath of relief, drawing confidence from it.

“I swear unto the Maker and the Holy Andraste to love this man the rest of my dasy. I, Queen Eideann Haelia Eleanor Cousland of Highever, take thee, Alistair Theirin of Ferelden, to be my wedded Husband and King, with all your faults and strengths, to join with you and share all that is to come. I promise to love thee wholly and without restraint, by the life that courses within my blood, and the love that resides within my heart, in life and Beyond, where we shall meet, remember, and love again. I will love, honor, and respect you all the days of my life, by the Maker’s grace.” 

The Grand Cleric gave a satisfied look, raising her chin, and gave a nod.

“You have declared your consent before the presiding Grand Cleric of the Chantry. May the Maker’s Light fill you both with his blessings.” Her voice was old but strong, and Alistair glanced to her before she gave him a gentle nod. “Your Majesty, you may kiss your bride.” 

A bright smile cracked Alistair’s face, and he glanced back to meet Eideann’s eyes before catching her up in his arms and kissing her, not a chaste little kiss but a full, proper kiss, full of warmth and love. It was the same sort of kiss as the one they had shared within Fort Drakon, or outside the ruins up in Amaranthine. It was so full of life, and promise, that she could not help but get swept up in it as the crowd erupted into cheers. She drew back breathless, grinning too, and his eyes sparkled on her own, beautiful gold on her Cousland blues. And then she gave him a nod, and they turned together, King and Queen, husband and wife, the royal family of Ferelden. 

And then they descended the steps to the carpeted floorn to begin the celebrations.

***

“How does it feel?” Eideann looked up, expression bright, veritably glowing from it all.

“Like it always does?” she told him, only partly a lie. Nate shook his head from the door. 

“But better?” he pressed.

“Better.” Alistair’s fingers laced through hers where he sat on the seat in the sitting room where they had first spoken to Nate months ago. In the days since the wedding they had been busy with different tasks, and celebrating in their own way, but the time had come to speak of the events of Amgarrak, and also of more. 

“It is good to see you, my friend.” Nate just nodded, crossing his arms loosely and considering the light streaming through the windows casting pools of dust motes and brightness across the pelts on the floor.

“It is good to be back. And we did as you asked. There will be no golems from that thaig. And our relationships with Orzammar are stronger than ever. Keenan’s work reclaiming thaigs has earned us many friends, and those friendships will prove valuable.” Eideann gave a small nod.

“They helped pay for this wedding,” she admitted, but it was no complaint. “We shall continue our fight. As it stands, I owe you my friend.”

“I am eager for a rest,” he admitted in turn, adjusting his black doublet. She gave him a quiet look. He knew what that meant. “Oh no. Not more…?” She gave a soft sigh.

“While you were gone, Mistress Woolsey and Seneschal Garevel uncovered information about a plot to bring down Alistair and myself by the remnants of that assassination attempt that happened while I was staying in Amaranthine. They dispatched some of the Silver Knights to contend with the problem, and they tried, but our reach is limited beyond Ferelden, and the situation now calls for a noble’s hand.” Nathaniel sank into a seat across from them, considering them both with narrowed eyes.

“Why me? Where?” he pressed.

“Kirkwall. You know it better than anyone. You know who our friends are there, and you have some of your own. But more than this. We received word of a…a strange discovery down in the Deep Roads beneath the Marches. The place itself is odd, a new kind of lyrium and…relics like ones no one has ever seen, if reports are to be believed.”

“Rumor,” he said softly, shaking his head. “What else?”

“The darkspawn avoid it.” Alistair’s look was somber, his eyes settling on Nathaniel properly.

“What?” 

“We were surprised as well, but if its true…there’s something there that can help do battle against the Blight. And that…” 

“That is worth knowing.” Nathaniel said softly. But he felt a flicker of hesitation. “Cousland, you must know…this is…a difficult thing you ask. I am no fan of the Deep Roads.”

“I know,” she said, and her look was genuine. Her eyes settled on his before she moved to reach across the table between them and rest her fingers on his arm. “But if this can help…in any way…” He nodded. 

“Alright. Ambassador to Kirkwall, find these traitors, and uncover something about this mystery thaig if I can.” Eideann gave a quiet nod and Nate drew a slow breath before pushing himself up and giving a slow bow.

“We shall have letters of introduction and authority penned and sealed,” Eideann assured him. “Let me know which of the nobles might need additional pressure. And I shall also write one for the Arishok, who is rumored to still be in Kirkwall. If you find yourself in a position where Sten’s name might be useful, I can only hope it may help.” 

For that he was grateful, though he also planned on giving them as wide a berth as he might. He was not there for the Qunari. Instead, he straightened, with another confident nod.

“I will take a team, if I may?”

“As you will. We shall cover expenses if need be.” He was grateful as well for that, but he planned to avail of other hospitality while in Kirkwall. He was already starting to think his way through, of who he might need and who he should take. A mage this time would be best, and those who knew the Deep Roads. Oghren or Sigrun certainly. He thought a moment, then sighed.

“Can you get Keenan to send additional forces to man Vigil’s Keep. I have not had the opportunity to recruit more Wardens.”

“It shall be done,” Alistair promised. “I shall send the word myself.” He was the Warden-Constable. He still had authority there.

That was all he needed then. That was everything. He gave a small nod, then shifted back, moving for the door.

“Then I shall not keep you, though really, you two should be celebrating, not working.” Alistair gave a quiet smile at that, but Eideann was as somber as ever, and he could see another thought yet in her eyes.

“Nate.” He paused a moment, and Eideann too rose from her seat, crossing around to reach him, her hand sliding from Alistair’s. “There is…one more thing.” He had a flicker of hesitation as she crossed to join him. Alistair settled back in his chair. “When Sergeant Maverlies reported in from Kirkwall, she came with an intriguing bit of news. And it’s something you should know,” Eideann said softly. “But…you will not like it. Either way, I need you to act on it, and…to do so carefully.”

“Well?” Nate’s look was concerned. “Spit it out. What is it?” She wet her lips.

“Maverlies had help in Kirkwall, though not the kind you might think. Warden help. Loyal help.” He was confused. Why wouldn’t the Warden’s help an emissary on behalf of Queen Eideann and King Alistair? But there was more to it, or else…

He paused.

“What Warden? What is this…news?” He narrowed his eyes at her, and she met the gaze with a solemn one of his own.

“Nate, she found Anders.” For a moment, there was silence, and none of them spoke. And then Nate let out a slow breath, turning his face away.

“Am I to bring him back?” This time it was Eideann’s turn to be quiet for a moment. 

And then, finally, in a very soft voice, she simply said, “At your discretion. He may be of help. But you’ll have to find him first.”

“Oh, I’ll find him,” Nate said simply. He felt a cold chill, but this was of determination, ferocity. He turned to meet her eyes, and then gave a curt bow, and another to Alistair. “Your Majesties…” A brief and perfunctory farewell. Eideann just shook her head.

“Nate?” He met her eyes. She gave a flicker of softness that sank deep into him. “Good luck.”

“And you, Cousland. Theirin.” And with that he was out the door, with a journey to book, a mission to fulfill, and the man who scorned him to find.

 **END DANCES IN DARKNESS BOOK 6: REFUGEE**  
[Dances in Darkness Series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/241561)  
Dances in Darkness - Book 7: Amell coming soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS THE FINAL CHAPTER OF BOOK 6. THERE WILL BE A **TWO WEEK HIATUS** FOR PLANNING REASONS BEFORE BOOK 7 BEGINS. THANK YOU! :)
> 
> NOTES ABOUT CHANTRY VOWS:  
> There is a piece of this taken from the Wedding scene in Inquisition's Trespasser DLC, but much of it was the same vow developed for use in my Cailan/Eideann/Alistair spin-off [Silver and Gold](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4451843/chapters/10114058). The wedding vows in Inquisition felt incredibly short and unsatisfying, and I wanted something that linked these two together with some proper weight.


End file.
